Cabin Fever
by Refur
Summary: First season. When the crew of the seaQuest uncover a massacre at a remote outpost, they assume they've stumbled across an isolated tragedy. How wrong can you be...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: seaQuest and its characters are not my property, and I am making no money from writing this story.  
  
Warning: this fic is likely to be quite nasty and lurid and involve a fair bit of death, possibly some gore etc. Do not read it if you can't cope. On the other hand, I personally think it's quite fun. But then, I've seen way to many horror films. You have been warned...  
  
I haven't written much of this yet, so people who've read my other fics may find I update a little less often than I have with them. On the other hand, you never know...  
  
  
  
Cabin Fever  
  
Chapter One  
  
"Easy does it, Chief, you're almost there."  
  
Crocker grinned to himself, listening to O'Neill's voice, slightly crackly with static, coming over the shuttle's radio. "I've been piloting crates like these since you were in diapers, son," he replied, "you don't need to give me advice."  
  
There was an embarrassed silence on the other end of the line. Crocker shook his head. That boy took everything too seriously. Reminded him somehow of himself at that age. "I can see the docking port," he informed the Lieutenant. "Am I clear?"  
  
"You're clear to dock at port C," O'Neill informed him.  
  
Crocker nodded to himself and carefully piloted the shuttle towards the port. He may have been doing this for longer than he cared to remember, but lately his hands had not been as steady as he would have liked. He hadn't told anyone, of course. It wouldn't do to worry them. All the same, he had the feeling the captain knew. Bridger always seemed to know these things.  
  
There was a satisfying clunk as the shuttle connected to the port. "Perfect," Crocker muttered to himself, activating the seal. "You're only as old as you feel." Trouble was, he felt pretty old.  
  
"How long is it since they've checked in again?" he asked O'Neill, heading back to the main body of the shuttle where the three other members of the security team were waiting.  
  
"Five weeks," came the reply. "They missed their scheduled monthly check-in a week ago."  
  
"And the UEO hasn't sent anyone till now?" Crocker asked in surprise.  
  
"This outpost is seriously isolated," O'Neill reminded him. "This was the first opportunity the UEO had to send a boat without damaging any ongoing research."  
  
"If I was stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with a broken radio and only five other grunts for company for five weeks, I might start questioning the UEO's priorities," Crocker muttered.  
  
"Hey, don't forget these guys are marines," O'Neill observed. "They're trained to survive in difficult circumstances."  
  
Crocker didn't answer. The shuttle door had just cycled open, and he was too busy covering his nose and mouth with his hand to pay attention to what O'Neill was saying.  
  
"Oh, man," groaned Lieutenant Hoyle from beside him. "That stinks."  
  
"Is the air bad?" O'Neill asked, sounding concerned.  
  
Crocker grimaced. "It's bad all right," he said, "but it's breathable." He peered into the darkness of the docking bay, trying not to breathe too deeply. "Bring oxygen canisters just in case," he instructed his men. He stepped into the gloom, shining his flashlight around in an attempt to locate the light switch. The air was thick with the smell, sickly and sweet. Crocker had smelt it before: rotting flesh. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he muttered to himself.  
  
Ensign Hernandez followed him in. "I've found the light," she said, her voice muffled by the handkerchief she had tied over her mouth. She flicked the switch.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
"The lights are down," Crocker informed O'Neill. Looks like the air- recycling system is shot too. Guess maybe the generator's packed up." He swept the room again with his flashlight. It was empty. "Hello?" he called. There was no reply except his own voice, echoing eerily back to him from the metal walls.  
  
"It's so quiet," muttered Seaman Rogers, the youngest member of the team. It was true: there was none of the hum that all the sailors associated with underwater facilities.  
  
"Guess the generator is down then," Crocker said quietly. He somehow didn't want to talk at normal volume. "OK, let's take this room by room. Rogers, Hoyle, take the flanks. Hernandez, bring up the rear. Report anything strange you see."  
  
"I've already seen a few strange things here," Rogers muttered, but a look from the chief silenced him.  
  
"Just keep alert. I have a feeling there's not going to be a welcome party." They headed for the nearest exit, sidearms ready.  
  
It was in the third room they entered that they found the first evidence of what had happened to the crew of the outpost. It was some kind of storage room, and Crocker was sweeping his flashlight along the walls when he heard Hoyle gasp.  
  
"I've found something," the lieutenant said.  
  
Crocker turned quickly and pointed the beam of his flashlight in the direction of Hoyle's voice. The younger man was kneeling on the floor beside a shapeless bundle. He looked up. "It's a body," he confirmed, reaching over to press two fingers against the man's neck. Suddenly he jumped back and stood up, wiping his hand hastily on his pants.  
  
"What is it, Lieutenant?" Crocker asked tensely. The man turned to him and blinked, dazzled by the flashlight.  
  
"Either he's made of jello or he's been dead a fair while," he said, grimacing in disgust.  
  
Crocker sighed. He had been right about the smell then. "We found one of the crew," he said into his comm. "He's long gone." He turned the body over with his foot, and forced himself to examine the half-rotted face. He noted the hole in the side of the skull.  
  
"Can you see how he died?" This was a new voice, though familiar enough: Captain Bridger. Crocker could almost see his old friend leaning over the communications console, face tense and concentrated. He swept the floor with his flashlight, and something glinted back at him. He stepped forward and examined the object more closely. It was a gun.  
  
"Don't worry Cap, nothing spooky about this one," he said reassuringly. "Looks like a straight suicide."  
  
There was an audible sigh at the other end of the line, then Bridger's voice came back. "Don't touch anything," he said. "What about the others?"  
  
Crocker shook his head. "I dunno yet, Cap, but it's not looking good." He looked around at his team. Their expressions ranged from disgust to fear. "Let's go find 'em."  
  
The outpost was not large, and it didn't take the security team long to find the rest of the marines. Three of them were stretched out in the refrigeration unit, although since the power had gone down this had done little to preserve the bodies. The smell was particularly unpleasant in there, and Crocker found himself grateful for the lack of insect life in the hermetically sealed undersea environment. It was times like these, he reflected, that he couldn't remember why he'd allowed the UEO to persuade him to delay his retirement for one more tour. He shivered. This place gave him the creeps. Even with the team behind him, and the knowledge that the seaQuest was only a few hundred metres away, he felt a deep sense of isolation and claustrophobia. If he felt like that, how much stronger must the feeling have been for the marines who were trapped here for six months at a time?  
  
The last two bodies were in the recreation room. One was sitting slumped over at a long table. The other lay on her front on the floor, halfway between the table and the door. Trying to run, Crocker thought. Both had been shot in the back of the head. He shook his head in sorrow.  
  
"Well, Cap," he said, sighing, "looks like a pretty open and shut case to me. Only takes one guy to go crazy in a place like this and before you know it everyone's going home in body bags. I've seen it happen before."  
  
"So you think the one in the storage room killed all the others?" Bridger asked.  
  
"I'd say so. Probably killed the ones in the cold store first, then their buddies got 'em laid out before he got around to finishing the job."  
  
"All the same, don't move anything. The UEO will want to send a team of investigators."  
  
"That's up to them, Cap, but I can tell you what happened here without wasting any more money."  
  
"Nonetheless," Bridger's voice was firm, "there are going to be six families wanting an explanation of this tragedy. Is your team OK to find the generator and try and power it up before you come back?"  
  
Crocker did a quick sweep of the flashlight beam over the faces of his men. Rogers looked sick to his stomach. Hernandez was slightly pale, the handkerchief still covering the lower part of her face. Hoyle, the most experienced of the three, seemed to be taking it best. Crocker himself was beginning to feel a little nauseous from the constant reek. "Yeah, that's a good idea, Cap," he replied. "This place could do with a little atmosphere."  
  
Half an hour later Crocker stood up with a sigh and brushed off the knees of his jumpsuit. "I'm sorry Cap," he said, "the generator's taken a beating. Looks like he didn't want them using the radio."  
  
In his mind's eye he could see the captain nodding as he absorbed this information. "I'll send some engineers to fix it," he replied. "We'll want it up and running before the investigators get here. You'd better come on back now, Chief."  
  
Crocker nodded gratefully. "Can't say as I'll be sorry to see the back of the place," he said, almost to himself, as he and his team began the trudge back through the echoing darkness to the shuttle.  
  
  
  
"Nathan, I want you to stay in the area and host the investigating team." Noyce looked tired. Bridger couldn't help being glad that it was the admiral's job to inform the families of the tragedy at the outpost. All the same, Noyce's orders meant that he too would have a difficult task.  
  
"Can't you send someone else?" he asked hopefully. "We're supposed to be heading up to the Arctic Ocean before the whales migrate."  
  
Noyce shook his head. "Six of my soldiers are dead, Nathan. I think this takes priority." He ended the communication before Bridger could reply.  
  
"You try explaining that to Dr. Westphalen," Bridger muttered at the UEO insignia that now filled the screen. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. At that moment there was a knock on the Ward Room door.  
  
"Come in," he called.  
  
The door opened and a familiar head peered around it.  
  
"You wanted to see me?"  
  
Bridger smiled. "Lucas. Come in, take a seat." The teenager came all of the way into the room, sloped over to the table and slumped down in a chair. Sloppy, thought Bridger. Everything about the boy was sloppy: his tousled hair, his baggy clothes, the way he slouched about... Bridger grinned inwardly at himself. You're showing your age again, he reprimanded himself.  
  
He leaned forward slightly. "I've got a job for you."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Lucas raised his eyebrows, looking singularly unimpressed. Bridger raised his own back.  
  
"Yeah," he said, mimicking the teenager's tone. "I need you to go down to the outpost with Hitchcock and help her fix the generator."  
  
At this the young man straightened in his chair and his eyes lit up. "You mean the haunted outpost?" he asked, looking interested all of a sudden.  
  
Bridger rolled his eyes. "It's not haunted. There was a tragic accident, that's all."  
  
Lucas shrugged. "You say potato, I say potahto."  
  
Bridger shook his head. "Well, haunted or no, I need you down there, and I don't want you wandering around. It's not pleasant, believe me. I want you to stay with Hitchcock. No exploring."  
  
Lucas nodded. "No looking for ghosts," he said with a grin.  
  
"That's right. Particularly because the only people who see ghosts are people who believe in them, and I know that you are too rational to be one of those people."  
  
It was Lucas' turn to roll his eyes. "Whatever," he said, standing up. "Is that all?"  
  
Bridger sighed. "Just be ready to go in half an hour."  
  
The young man's grin broadened. "Very cool." 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See chapter one.  
  
Thanks to kas7, Teresa, dolphinology, KatKnits00, sara, pari106 and Diena for their lovely reviews.  
  
kas7: yeah, scary is the idea. Not sure how good I am at it, though...  
  
KatKnits00: your logic is impeccable ; ).  
  
Diena: hope you weren't disappointed when you actually read the story!  
  
  
  
Cabin Fever  
  
Chapter Two  
  
The smell was the first thing that hit Lucas. It had been pretty bad when he was still in the shuttle, but once he stepped into the darkness of the room beyond it became overpowering. It was almost like the air was alive, thick and viscous like liquid. Air is a liquid, he reminded himself, concentrating on science and trying not to breathe.  
  
He was momentarily dazzled by the beam of Commander Hitchcock's flashlight. "Pretty bad, huh," she remarked calmly. Lucas nodded, coughing. Every breath felt like a violation. "Come on," the Commander put her hand on his shoulder. "Let's get this generator running and get out of here." She propelled him forward through the darkness, and the beams of their flashlights cast menacing shadows into the corners of the room. For all his talk about ghosts before, Lucas felt suddenly afraid. As if something was watching them.  
  
They found the generator without too much trouble, and knelt down beside it to inspect the damage. It looked like somebody had taken a baseball bat to it. Still, it was definitely fixable. As they set to work, Lucas felt his fears dissipate. This was just a plain old generator. Nothing spooky about it at all.  
  
"Damn," he said after about half an hour. Hitchcock paused in her adjustments.  
  
"What is it?" she asked, her voice tense.  
  
"I can't find the right size screwdriver. I know I brought it. I must have left it back at the shuttle."  
  
"We'll go and get it," the Commander said, starting to extricate herself from the generator.  
  
"No, that's OK," Lucas said, standing up. "I can get it myself."  
  
"Are you sure?" Hitchcock asked.  
  
"Yeah. No point both of us going. This way we'll be done quicker." And out of this stink, he added mentally, his brain starting to register the foul air again now that his concentration was broken.  
  
He made his way back to the shuttle, thinking about the problems of fixing the generator. He didn't have all the parts they needed, but he was pretty sure he could improvise. At least it was challenging. Stepping inside the shuttle he began to search for the screwdriver, and eventually found it under one of the seats in the passenger compartment. He banged his head sitting back up again, and rubbed it ruefully.  
  
On his way back to the generator, he was wondering what he could use to seal a holed pipe when he thought he heard a noise behind him. He froze, feeling his stomach lurch, and was suddenly sharply aware of all the things he had forgotten about in his concentration. The silence was absolute. He couldn't hear Hitchcock. Not even the sound of dripping water broke the stillness. Lucas listened, hard. He hadn't really heard anything. It was just his imagination – right? The silence began to be oppressive, filling Lucas' head until his ears began to hurt. He'd never know silence could be so loud.  
  
He turned, sharply, shining the beam of the flashlight back the way he had come. There was nothing there. The corridor was empty. Of course. Nothing there, you fool, he reprimanded himself. Man, Bridger would be laughing his ass off if he could see you now. He swallowed, hard, and ran his hand through his hair. Then all the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.  
  
There was someone behind him.  
  
He could feel a malevolent presence in the corridor behind him. He didn't want to turn round. But knowing it was there without being able to see it was even worse. Tensing himself, he turned.  
  
There was nothing there.  
  
Lucas' shoulders sagged in relief. Stop being such a big baby, he told himself. You know all about the power of suggestion. Stop falling for it. He tried to ignore the flickering shadows that the beam of the flashlight created at the edges of his vision and started forward again, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants.  
  
Ten minutes later, Lucas had to admit he was lost. He had seen the plans for the base back in the shuttle, and knew it wasn't big. How, then, had he managed to get lost? He shook his head, perplexed. He was in some kind of dormitory: six bunks, in three sets of two, took up most of the space in the tiny room. None was occupied. There was no other exit except the one he had come in by. Sighing, he turned to go.  
  
He retraced his steps with a feeling of growing unease in the pit of his stomach. The silence was still oppressive. And was it his imagination, or was the smell getting worse? Your imagination, he decided. Dad always said you had too much of it.  
  
Up ahead of him he saw the room he was sure contained the generator. The doorway was black and gaping, but he was determined not to think about how much it looked like a mouth. He stepped through, only to stop dead in his tracks.  
  
He was in the bedroom again.  
  
Lucas couldn't believe it. He knew he'd taken a different route this time – how had he ended up back here? Suddenly the empty bunks, which before had seemed simply mundane, took on a more menacing aspect. He thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned swiftly: nothing. In a panic, he turned 360 degrees, sweeping his flashlight across the whole room. There was nothing there – nothing but him and the beds. He stood still, listening. His breathing sounded loud in the stillness. He concentrated on making it quieter. Why? the rational side of his brain asked. It's not like anyone's going to hear you. But he did it all the same.  
  
OK, let's think about this logically. You obviously don't know the way to the generator, so let's go back to the shuttle and check the plans there. Pleased to have a plan of action, and looking forward to the light and warmth of the shuttle, Lucas set off, retracing his steps once more. After a few minutes he saw the door that led to the docking bay ahead of him and quickened his step, smiling with relief. In his confidence he stumbled over the sill of the doorway and dropped the flashlight.  
  
It went out.  
  
Struggling to his feet, he realised in dismay that he was not in the docking bay. There was no light coming from the open door of the shuttle. In fact, there was no light at all. He had used the term 'pitch black' many times in his life, but he had never experienced the reality until now.  
  
Dropping to his knees, he began to feel for the flashlight. The darkness was disconcerting. He realised he didn't know whether his eyes were open or shut, and this disturbed him for some reason. If it wasn't for the stench that still filled the air and the feeling of the metal deck beneath him, he wouldn't have been sure he was alive at all. Once more, he had the feeling – stronger now – that the blackness was somehow alive.  
  
His fingers brushed the flashlight and he grabbed it greedily, clasping it close to him like some kind of talisman against the dark. He gave it an experimental tap. Nothing happened. Then he froze.  
  
Something had brushed the back of his neck.  
  
He felt his mouth go dry. You just imagined it, the rational side of his brain assured him. Get the flashlight working and get back to the shuttle. Forcing his sweat-slick fingers to work, he began to prise the casing of the flashlight open. He was beset suddenly by a suffocating feeling of claustrophobia. Don't be ridiculous, his rational brain said. You're a submariner. How could you be claustrophobic? But the rest of him didn't answer, it was too busy curled up in a corner somewhere sobbing.  
  
Because the darkness was breathing. 


	3. Chapter 3

I don't own seaQuest, and I'm not making any money from this.

Big thankyous are in order to:Yury, dreamofshadows, Karel, Vampy, kas, Mar, sara, pari106, Teresa, TeacherTam and KatKnits00. Glad you're all enjoying it so far!

I realise putting this up so close the "The Station of Pure Evil Horribleness" might be foolish (that's a great story btw, you should all read it), but hey, maybe we can start a whole "seaQuest horror" subsection :). Sorry it's been a bit of a while coming, I can't promise the next one will be quicker, but I'll do my best...

Cabin Fever  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Hitchcock shifted her position and sighed. "Just one more wire," she muttered to herself, reaching for her soldering iron. There! She crawled out from under the generator and stretched her aching shoulders, grimacing as the muscles complained. "Damn, it's cramped down there," she muttered.  
  
Suddenly she remembered Lucas. He'd been gone for – how long? She realised she wasn't sure. She'd been so engrossed in her work on the generator that she had no idea how much time had gone by. Still, how much trouble could the kid get into between here and the shuttle anyway? It was only a couple of rooms away. He'd probably got freaked out and decided to stay in the shuttle, where there was light and warmth. She didn't blame him.  
  
Shivering, she moved over to the area he been working in. There was something very creepy about this place, and it wasn't just the knowledge that somewhere just around the corner were six rotting corpses. That she could cope with, even the smell, unpleasant as it was. But she had a disconcerting feeling that she was an intruder into the space of someone – or something – very old.  
  
That was it. The place felt old. It felt that way, even though she knew it was the latest in undersea technology, a more or less self-sustaining colony at depths that had never been colonized in this way before. An experiment in itself, as well as a military outpost. Looks like the experiment failed, Hitchcock thought.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move.  
  
She turned sharply, swinging the beam of the flashlight round wildly. There was nothing there but an innocent looking fire extinguisher, its label bleached slightly by the white glare. She shook her head, and a shiver ran down her spine. Hunkering down, she peered at the section of generator that Lucas had been working on. What had he gone back to the shuttle for anyway? She was pretty sure she had all the tools she needed to finish this job right here. And the sooner it's finished, the sooner we can get out of this place, she added mentally, casting a quick glance around her into the gloom. Taking a deep breath, she set to work, trying to shake off the feeling that she was being watched.  
  
It was a few minutes before Lucas realised that the raspy breathing he could hear was his own. By that time his heart had almost stopped with fear. He swallowed, hard, and closed his eyes – not that it made any difference in this lightless world – shifting back to sit on his haunches. He felt the sweat that had pooled at the nape of his neck begin to trickle down his spine. Get the flashlight working and get out of here, his brain commanded. Obediently, he began to fumble with the casing, but his fingers were trembling, and, although the breathing no longer terrified him, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something behind him. Find a wall. Right. A wall. Something to put his back against.  
  
He started to crawl forwards through the darkness, groping for something solid. After For a horrible moment he thought that maybe the darkness was infinite, that there were no walls and he would be groping around for something solid for the rest of his life. Then his hand connected with a flat metal surface at right angles to the floor. At first he thought it was the wall, but then he realised it was a horizontal strip a few inches wide. Below it was empty air. Above it was something soft and yielding.  
  
A mattress.  
  
Lucas was on his feet in a second and backing away, his mouth dry. Backing through an unfamiliar pitch-black room was pretty damn stupid, but there was no way he was turning his back on what he had just felt. Because he knew what it was. He knew that somewhere in front of him in the blackness were six empty beds, their hospital corners and spotless linen somehow more chilling than anything a horror movie director could have come up with. And so he backed up, until his heel struck against the door sill and he stepped carefully over it and turned, leaning against the wall by the door and trying not to think.  
  
His whole body was trembling now, he realised. Even his teeth were chattering. That's no big surprise, he told himself. It's like the arctic down here. Still, he found himself somewhat unnerved by how loud his chattering teeth sound in the silence, and he clamped them together, hard.  
  
Flashlight, flashlight, flashlight. He began to fumble with the casing once more. The tips of his fingers were almost numb, and he shoved the flashlight back in his belt and rubbed his hands together, trying to put some life back into them. It hadn't been this cold when they'd arrived, had it? He remembered noticing with surprise that he hadn't been able to see his breath, and assuming it was some function of the decomposing corpses that he knew were here somewhere. He couldn't see his breath now, but then he couldn't see his hand in front of his face either. He'd never realised how much he relied on his eyes before.  
  
Thank God he still had his tool belt. He began to grope for a small screwdriver. His legs were pretty shaky, so he sank to the floor, but generally he was feeling much better now that he had something solid to work on. He wasn't going to think about the fact that the cold seemed to be emanating from the doorway just beside him. He was going to think about how to fix the flashlight.  
  
  
  
A few minutes later, Lucas cursed under his breath. One of the tiny screws that held the flashlight casing closed had fallen from his clumsy fingers. He had heard it hit the floor, the ring of metal on metal sounding incredibly loud. Well, if there really was anyone here looking for me, they probably would've found me hours ago, he pointed out to the part of him that was still refusing to come out from its hiding place under a psychic bed. Hours? He realised he had no idea how long he'd been wandering around this place. Hitchcock must have realised he was missing by now. Why hadn't she come to find him? Unless something had happened to her... He pushed that thought away. She was probably just too busy to notice the passage of time. Because time was still passing, right? No matter how much he felt like he was in some kind of hellish limbo, in reality he was in a small metal capsule deep under the sea, and seaQuest with its light and comfort was only a few hundred metres away. Right? Right.  
  
He groped on the floor for the screw, but it quickly became clear that there was no way he was going to find it in the dark. Well, it wasn't that important anyway. The important thing was to get the flashlight working, then he could look for the screw. Although, to be honest, if he couldn't find the shuttle or Hitchcock in a complex this size, he didn't hold out much hope for finding anything else. Except maybe a room with six empty beds...  
  
Shut up Wolenczak, you freak! Can't you damn well stop thinking for one second? He snapped the wires of the flashlight back into place, praying that the connection he'd fixed had been the only fault in the thing, and flipped the switch.  
  
A bright white beam of light shot out in front of him, dazzling his eyes and creating dancing shadows at the edges of his vision. He blinked, and his eyes focussed once more on what was in front of him.  
  
It was another pair of eyes.  
  
Lucas wheeled, his heart in his throat, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Run! But he couldn't run, not that way, because that way were the beds, the snowy-white linen gleaming in the circle of light, menacing, their shadows looming large on the walls.  
  
He wheeled again, desperately searching for a way out. The eyes were still behind him, dead eyes staring from a rotting face, but watching him, he was sure of it. He saw a doorway beyond the eyes, but as he swung the torch beam that way he saw that there were more. Three sets of eyes. Three corpses. All between him and the doorway. All staring sightlessly towards him, as if waiting to see what he would do next.  
  
This wasn't the layout of the station, he was sure of it now. The freezer unit didn't connect to the barracks. He could see the blueprints in his mind. Nonetheless, this was his reality, and he had to do something.  
  
He was going to have to jump over them.  
  
Lucas put his shaking hand over his mouth, clenching his teeth together so hard that his jaw began to ache. His heart-beat sounded like thunder in his ears. Slowly, he backed away from the corpses, backed up to the doorway. He could feel the cold coming from behind him now in waves. But this room is supposed to be the freezer unit, not that one, he thought as if in a dream. It wasn't far enough. He was going to have to start his run-up from the barracks.  
  
Swallowing hard, he stepped over the sill. He felt the pressure of the air around him increase. He thought he could hear whispering, barely audible, but he didn't look behind. Three more steps back. Two. One. He felt the bedstead against the back of his knees and fought back a wave of terror that threatened to paralyze him where he stood. No way am I staying here any longer than necessary. Tucking the flashlight into his belt, he took a deep breath, and started to run.  
  
It could have only been a couple of seconds before he jumped, but it felt like hours. The beam of the flashlight was pointing at the ceiling now, dazzling his eyes, and wavering shadows flew in all directions. He counted the steps in his head, and when he knew he was there, he jumped.  
  
He could feel the malevolent gaze of those three pairs of eyes watching him as he flew over them, and for a moment he was sure that he would feel a bony grip on his ankle that would bring him crashing down. But there was nothing. He hit the metal deck hard, stumbled, righted himself, and, giving in to terror, kept running, as fast as he could. The darkness seemed almost worse now that the flashlight was working again, he could feel it pressing up behind him, pushing him forward almost. He was breathing hard, and suddenly he had a vision of the darkness reaching down his throat with his breath, curling inside of him, brushing against his heart.  
  
His foot hit something and he stumbled, putting out his hands to catch himself. The flashlight flickered off again and he cursed the lost screw. His left hand hit the metal deck hard, but his right one hit something soft and strange. Suddenly there was a rumbling hum and the station lights flickered on, dazzling him once more.  
  
His face was inches away from a dead man. His eyes stared straight into an answering pair, half eaten away by who knew what parasites. But that wasn't what made Lucas' blood run cold. That wasn't the worst of it. Because his hand was.  
  
His hand was.  
  
His hand was inside the corpse's rib cage.  
  
And Lucas screamed.


	4. Chapter 4

See chapter one for disclaimer.  
  
Many thanks go out to KatKnits00, sara, Teresa, kas7, Yury (x2!), pari106, dolphinology, TeacherTam and the lurker.  
  
This is not the best chapter ever, and I may rewrite it, so if you have any suggestions, fire away!  
  
  
  
Cabin Fever  
  
Chapter 4  
  
Hitchcock inspected the casing of the generator and nodded in satisfaction. Crawling out from underneath it, she stretched her cramped muscles and flipped the switch.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
Cursing under her breath, Hitchcock aimed a judicious kick at the contraption. The stubbed toe brought tears to her eyes, but after a moment the machine spluttered, and coughed into life with a rattling roar. A slow smile spread across Hitchcock's face. "Good old frontier engineering."  
  
The base lights flickered back on. Momentarily blinded, Hitchcock covered her eyes with her hands.  
  
That was when she heard the scream.  
  
She froze, and the sweat that was dripping down her back seemed all of a sudden to turn to ice. Lucas! She was running before her brain had even started to process the information. What trouble could he possibly have got into down here? Probably just a practical joke, she reassured herself as she ran. And when I find him, I'm going to kill him for scaring me like this.  
  
And finding him wouldn't take long; after all, it wasn't like the base was particularly large. In fact, now that the lights were on it seemed pretty cramped – the ceilings were low and the corridors narrow. Funny how the mind can play tricks on you, Hitchcock reflected as she ran, remembering the impression of echoing emptiness she'd had when she'd passed through them in the dark.  
  
She found Lucas in the store-room, crouched in the far corner. A rotting corpse, revealed now in all its glory in the harsh glare of the strip lights, lay between her and him.  
  
"Lucas?" she said, taking a step into the room. The boy didn't speak, or even move. As if he hadn't heard her. She stepped carefully around the room's other occupant, covering the lower half of her face with her hand and trying to breath through her mouth. She hoped fervently that the air recycling system would kick in soon.  
  
"Lucas?" she said again, crouching down by the boy and looking into his face. He stared back at her, no, through her, his eyes blank. There was no spark of recognition in his face. He was crouching with his back to the wall, one arm wrapped around his knees, the other extended stiffly in front of him. Hitchcock noticed that his forearm and hand were glistening in the light, as if they were covered with some liquid. Here and there, little chunks of... something were attached to the arm. Hitchcock didn't want to think about what it might be.  
  
She turned her attention away from the teenager's arm, and back to his face. "Lucas," she said gently, touching his shoulder, "what's wrong?" There was no response. Her concern was beginning to turn into alarm. "Lucas?" She shook him. His body moved bonelessly in her grip, like a rag- doll. But his face was still empty.  
  
Hitchcock began to feel panic rising in her throat. She forced it down. Stay calm. But it wasn't so easy. If Lucas had been obviously injured, that would have been one thing, but this... this was downright creepy.  
  
"Come on, Lucas, stop screwing around," she pleaded, and as a last resort, she slapped him. His head snapped round with the force of the blow, which was harder than she'd intended it to be. And then he turned to look at her, and she saw understanding return to his eyes.  
  
"Ow," he said, ruefully rubbing his cheek. She noticed that he used his clean hand.  
  
Hitchcock sighed with relief, and sat back on her haunches. "Jesus, you had me scared for a minute."  
  
Lucas stared at her, frowning. "What's going on?"  
  
Hitchcock shook her head. "I was hoping you could tell me that. I heard you scream. What happened?"  
  
Lucas' frown deepened, then his gaze fell on his outstretched hand. All at once, the blood seemed to drain from his face. He looked past Hitchcock at the bundle of blackened flesh that lay in the centre of the room and swallowed, hard.  
  
"Can we get out of here now please?" he asked, and his voice was hardly more then a whisper.  
  
Hitchcock watched him for a moment, trying to understand what was going through his head. The she nodded once, and stood up, extending a hand to help him. "I think that's the best idea I've heard all day."  
  
  
  
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."  
  
Dr. Westphalen put her hands on her hips and glared. Bridger found himself relieved that, for once, that look was not directed at him.  
  
"If you think you're just going to waltz straight back to work after an incident like that, you've got another think coming," she said firmly.  
  
Lucas glared back, and Bridger was now relieved on two counts. "What 'incident'? I was just a little freaked out!"  
  
Westphalen raised her eyebrows. "It's called 'shock'. To be more precise, in your case it's called 'catatonic shock'."  
  
"Oh please," Lucas snorted.  
  
"Don't you take that tone with me young man," Westphalen said, her voice becoming more and more clipped. "You are not moving from this Med Bay until I am satisfied that you're fully recovered."  
  
Lucas shook his head angrily. "We're on a submarine, for God's sake! Where am I going to go?" His pitch was rising. Westphalen started to tap her foot, but didn't reply. Lucas turned to Bridger, his face pleading. "Captain?"  
  
Bridger shook his head. "I'm sorry, kiddo. The chief medical officer's decision is final in health matters."  
  
For a moment, the teenager just stared at him, his face a picture of betrayal. Then his mouth snapped shut and he turned back to Westphalen. "Fine, OK, whatever," he said bitterly. "Can I at least have my computer?"  
  
Bridger opened his mouth, but the doctor beat him to it. "Absolutely not," she said crisply. "Bed rest means bed rest."  
  
Lucas' eyes flashed, and Bridger sighed. It looked like it was going to be a long argument.  
  
  
  
Jane Monaghan sighed and stretched, rubbing her eyes. The science lab was deserted at this time of night, and the dim lighting of ship's night created deep shadows between the rows of work-stations. Monaghan leaned forward again to examine her samples, and felt her shoulder muscles complain. Bed would be pretty good right now, she thought longingly. Still, she had to get the samples done by the morning or her project manager would go ballistic. And, if she was perfectly honest with herself, it was her own fault that she was still working on them when everyone else had long since finished and gone to bed. If she hadn't spent the last few days being so distracted by a handsome young ensign down in Engineering...  
  
A smile touched the corners of her lips, and she leaned her chin on her hand, lost in her daydream. James. What a lovely name. James, James, James...  
  
Something fell off a shelf behind her. She jumped, startled, and turned quickly round. The science lab was empty and silent, except for the reassuring deep hum of the ship's engines. She sighed, shaking her head at herself. Stop mooning around and get working, otherwise you're never going to get to bed.  
  
She leaned over the samples again, blinking a couple of times to get her tired eyes to focus properly. Staying up late was not one of her strong suits. But just as her brain was beginning to re-engage, she heard another noise.  
  
This one sounded like a footstep.  
  
Monaghan froze, terrified. She turned round slowly, hardly daring to look. The lab behind her was empty, but it seemed to have transformed from the friendly, reassuring place where she worked every day to a strange landscape of dim, half-guessed forms and monstrous shadows.  
  
"Hello?" she said, and flushed to hear the tremble in her voice. Jesus Christ, two little noises and you turn straight back into a frightened six- year-old, she admonished herself, but her heart continued to race as she stood up and slowly walked over in the direction the noises had come from. "Is anyone there?"  
  
There was no answer. She stepped quickly around the row of workstations and looked down the next aisle. It was dark and empty, except for the abandoned lab stools. Monaghan sighed and rubbed her hands over her face. I am never working this late again, no matter how many cute ensigns ask me out. She stood for a moment, staring at the strange shadows her desk lamp cast on the laboratory wall. Then her mouth went dry.  
  
One of the shadows was moving.  
  
She turned sharply, and as she did she heard a sharp click from the direction of her workstation. The desk lamp went out, and everything was plunged into gloomy half-light. But somewhere over there a dim silhouette was moving.  
  
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Monaghan did her best to ignore the babbling of her brain and think rationally. She'd seen enough horror movies to know exactly what not to do in a situation like this. Quietly, she started to move towards the door.  
  
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.  
  
She had only taken a couple of steps when she tripped over a lab stool, stumbling heavily but catching herself before she fell. The stool, however, went crashing to the floor with a harsh clatter of metal on metal. For a moment, Monaghan was paralysed with fear. Then she straightened, slowly and carefully, and scanned the room, listening hard for any noises above the ever-present humming. Where is he?  
  
Ohmygod, I don't want to die, please God I know I'm not a good Christian but I promise to believe in you if you'll just let me live.  
  
As her eyes grew more accustomed to the dimness she could see any number of bulky shapes that could be him. None of them were moving.  
  
Where is he?  
  
Where is he?  
  
Then she finally heard a noise, and she knew exactly where he was.  
  
He was standing right behind her. 


	5. Chapter 5

seaQuest, mine? ::sporfle::

Many thanks and general appreciation to: Ihni, Deceiver of Fools, kas, the lurker, Yury, dolphinology, Nina-Maree, Teresa, Diena, sara and pari106. Sorry this one's so long in coming, guys...

Also bah! Once again I must change my notation. Italics are now indicated by ::. Hope you're all taking notes....

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Cabin Fever

Chapter 5

Bridger sighed and looked at his watch again. If the UEO was going to keep him up half the night waiting, they could at least make sure the shuttle was on time. It wasn't like there were tailbacks out there in the ocean. He shot a hopeful glance at the ensign who was on night shift on the shuttle bay, but she shook her head apologetically. "They're not on the scanners yet, sir."

Bridger frowned. The shuttle had been due to arrive twenty minutes before. If they weren't even on the scanners yet, then they were still some distance away. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then gave up and went to sit down on the metal steps that connected the upper level of the bay with the lower. As he reached them, he felt a hand on his arm and turned – but no-one was there. He turned back, feeling slightly sheepish, and sat down on the steps, trying to ignore the odd look the ensign gave him. He rubbed his eyes, wondering how the UEO knew how to install just the frequency of harsh fluorescent light that would be most irritating to a tired and crabby captain, and settled down to wait, thinking longingly of his warm bed.

----

About half an hour later, Bridger was interrupted in his quest to discover exactly how many square holes there were in the grille of the shuttle bay floor by the ensign. "They're onscreen now, sir," she said, looking up from her console. "If they continue at the current course and speed, they should arrive in approximately forty-five minutes."

Bridger did his best imitation of a crisp nod. "Thank you, Ensign," he said. Something flitted across the edge of his vision and he turned his head sharply. Nothing except the glaring fluorescence reflected from the floor. "Did you see something?" he asked, looking back at the ensign.

"No, sir," she said, shaking her head slowly, and looking at him as if he was mad.

Bridger gave an inward sigh. ::Way to go, convince the junior staff that you're insane. You're obviously letting this "haunted base" garbage get to you.:: But he shivered slightly as he remembered Hitchcock's description of Lucas' blank, staring eyes. Putting it out of his mind, he turned back to the floor, and realised with disgust that he had lost count.

----

Some fifty minutes later, Bridger stood with his back straight and tried to hide his impatience as he watched the shuttle bay doors cycle open with what seemed like grinding slowness. He composed his features into what he hoped looked like a sincere smile, and stepped forward, holding out his hand to the tall, thick-set woman who had just exited the shuttle. "Welcome to the ::seaQuest::."

The woman shook his hand firmly, looking him up and down . "You must be Captain Bridger," she said briskly. When Bridger nodded, she continued: "My name is Joanna Marks, I'll be leading the investigation. This is Kaisa Saarinen," she indicated a younger, wispy-looking blonde woman who stood now behind her on the right, "and Steven Ryder." Bridger took it that the skinny, rat-faced man with the dark circles under his eyes who had just struggled up the stairs was Ryder. He nodded at them both, trying to look as welcoming as possible.

"Let me show you to your quarters," he said, already turning to head out of the bay. But Marks frowned in surprise.

"We were told you had six bodies whose deaths needed investigating, Captain."

Bridger turned back, raising his eyebrows slightly. "That's correct, but given your lengthy journey out to the ::seaQuest::, I assumed you would want to rest before going down to the base." The ratty-looking man – Ryder – shot him a grateful glance, but Marks' frown deepened.

"Evidence is being lost even as we speak, Captain," she said in what Bridger would, were he in a slightly more bitter frame of mind, have classified as a reproving tone of voice. "We need to be shown to the bodies as soon as possible."

Bridger smiled slightly. "I'm afraid those people down there have already been dead for several weeks, Ms Marks. Another night isn't going to hurt."

Marks drew herself up to her full height. "Nevertheless," she said, without warmth in her voice.

It was all Bridger could do to stop the forced grin from slipping off his features. He held the woman's stare for a moment, then nodded. "Ensign," he called to the young woman on duty, "could you organise a shuttle and a security team to take Ms Marks and her colleagues down to the base?" The ensign nodded, and Bridger turned back to find Marks still staring at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Security team?" she asked.

Bridger remembered the strange feeling he had had in the shuttle bay earlier, and suppressed a shudder. "Just a precaution," he said.

----

On the way back to his quarters, Bridger passed the Med Bay and paused. On the one hand, he was bone tired and had a shift starting in a few hours. On the other, it would only take a moment to pop in and see how Lucas was doing. After a quick weighing of the options, Bridger stepped inside.

The orderly on duty was sitting in the outer office with his feet up on the table, reading a comic book. When he saw the captain, he straightened up quickly and plastered on a serious look. Bridger grinned.

"I'm not on duty," he said. "I'm just here to check on Lucas. How is he?"

The orderly shrugged. "He's been sleeping all night, sir. You can go and check for yourself, if you want." He indicated the glass office wall, beyond which lay the dimly lit Med Bay with its rows of beds.

Bridger thought for a second, then nodded. "I just might do that," he said, and stepped through the door.

Bridger's footsteps sounded loud in the quiet room, where the only sound was the ever-present humming of the ::seaQuest::'s systems. He walked down the central aisle until he came to the bed were Lucas lay, between two pools of dim light thrown by the overhead lamps. He stood for a moment beside the bed, watching the sleeping boy. His face was serene, his features composed into a peaceful expression. Too peaceful.

Bridger waved his hand quickly between the light and Lucas' face, and for a fraction of a second he saw a dark gleam from under one eyelid. He smiled, and crouched so that his mouth was at the level of Lucas' ear. "I saw you," he whispered.

Lucas opened his eyes properly now, and turned his head to face Bridger. "So what?" he muttered in a low voice. "Now it's a crime to have insomnia?"

Bridger raised his eyebrows. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were angry with me about something. Dr. Westphalen put you in here for your own good, you know."

Lucas rolled his eyes and turned his face towards the ceiling. "I'm ::fine::," he muttered.

"Well, when you get your medical degree I'll consider you capable of making such assessments," Bridger said in what he hoped was a flippant tone. He was suddenly feeling exhausted again. He watched Lucas for a moment as the boy stared determinedly at the ceiling. "Do you want me to ask the orderly to turn off the lights in here so you can get some sleep?"

Lucas' head snapped back round towards him. "No!" he said, his voice echoing in the silence. Bridger stared at him in surprise. "No," Lucas repeated, softly this time. "I'm fine, really."

Bridger rocked backwards on his heels; his legs were beginning to ache. "Do you want to talk about what happened down there, Kiddo?"

For a moment, Lucas' eyes seemed to turn inwards. Then he turned his head away once more. "No," he said in a muffled voice.

Bridger sighed and stood up, shaking out his legs to ease the cramps. He put a hand on Lucas' arm. "I'm here for you if you need me. You know that, don't you?"

Lucas didn't look at him, but nodded. Bridger supposed he would have to be satisfied with that. He sighed again and turned to go, but felt a hand on his arm and looked back, surprised. "You won't tell Dr. Westphalen I couldn't sleep, will you?" Lucas asked, his voice pleading. Bridger smiled slightly and crouched down again.

"It'll be our secret," he said. "Just as long as you promise to tell me if it happens again."

Lucas nodded with a grateful expression.

----

Tom Jensen smiled as he opened the hatch that led to the science lab and flipped on the light. The place was empty; it always was at this time in the morning. It was his favourite time: no distractions, no people fussing about, getting in the way. Plenty of space for him to work.

He frowned as he saw a lab stool overturned in one of the aisles, and reached down to pick it up. He never understood how scientific people could be so messy. For one thing, it was just inconsiderate to clutter up other peoples' workspace.

When he came to the next aisle, though, his frown deepened. He wasn't alone after all. A woman was seated at one of the desks, her head on her arms, sleeping. He recognised her even from behind: Monaghan. ::Figures::, he snorted to himself. ::She hardly ever spends time in here in the daytime anymore. I wondered when she was getting all her work done.:: Shaking his head, he continued to his own desk and sat down to work.

Ten minutes later he sat back with a sigh. He couldn't concentrate. Just knowing Monaghan was there, even though she was asleep, somehow made him nervous. It was as if she could see him sitting there at six in the morning and was filing it away for future reference so she could giggle about him and his lack of a life with all her friends in the mess-hall later. ::The joke's on her, though::, he reminded himself. :: Her samples are due in today, and there's no way she's finished them::. At that moment, something fell to the floor with a clatter in the lab behind him and he turned, startled. But there was nothing there. He sighed again, and leaned back over his work.

By seven o'clock he could no longer bear it. Not only was he being thrown off by the mere fact of her presence, now he had a nagging feeling of guilt as well. Her supervisor would be in in a couple of hours; if he woke her up now, she might have time to finish her samples. ::What do you care::, he thought fiercely. ::It's her own silly fault if she hasn't done them.:: But he knew the feeling wasn't going to go away until he did something about it, so he stood up.

He stopped in surprise once he came within view of the sleeping woman, however; one of the stools in the next aisle lay on the floor. He frowned, and went to pick it up. As he set it straight, he stared at it, astonished. It was the same stool he had picked up when he'd first stepped into the lab. He was sure of it. ::Stools don't just fall over by themselves::, he thought, and looked sharply round. But there was nothing to see; just the empty, brightly lit lab and the sleeping woman. Remembering why he'd stood up in the first place, he went to wake her.

"Monaghan," he said softly, feeling slightly ridiculous as he touched her shoulder. "It's morning. Time to wake up." There was no response. ::Sleeping the sleep of the dead::, he thought, and shook her a little, speaking more loudly. "Monaghan."

Still nothing. Jensen bit his lip, suddenly angry with this silly girl for ruining his morning's work. "Come on, Monaghan," he said loudly, and pulled her back in her chair. Her body slumped backwards, head hanging crooked, dead eyes staring at him. He jumped back in horror, seeing for the first time the pool of blood on the floor under the desk.

"Monaghan," he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

Warning, for those of you who didn't get it the first time – this is not a fluffy fic! That is all.

Endless crisp, sunny autumn days for: pari106, kas, Helen88216, KatKnits00, Nina-Maree, Teresa, dolphinology, sara and Diena. Thanks, you guys :).

Oh, a little announcement – I've set up a C2 community for seaQuest fics – you can get to it by following the link on my profile page or by clicking on the C2 communities link at the top right of the sQ page. It's basically an archive of all the sQ fics on that I and my two collaborators, Teresa and Diena, think are really damn cool. I'm slowly working my way through the back catalogue, so I'll continue to add to it as and when I find fantastic new stories. So, if any of you fancy reading a new/old story but are daunted by the idea of sifting through 25 pages of archive, join today! /end pimpage 

Oh yeah, and I've sort of set myself the challenge to update this every Thursday, so hopefully if you stop back in here next week there'll be a new chapter :).

Enough wittering. On with the show!

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Cabin Fever

Chapter 6

Bridger awoke after what seemed like only a few minutes to a hammering sound on his door. Rubbing his face, he looked at the clock on his bedside table; his shift wasn't due to start for another two hours. For a moment, he lay still, groggily hoping that it was all a dream and that he could sink back into the comfort of sleep; but the hammering continued.

Bridger sighed and hauled himself out of the bed, pulling on his bathrobe as he crossed to the door and opened it. Standing on the other side was a member of the science crew whose name, he found to his chagrin, he couldn't quite remember. He was pretty sure that last time he had seen the man he hadn't looked quite so terrified, however.

"Can I help you?" Bridger asked.

The man did not reply, but simply stood, breathing hard, his hand still raised as if to continue beating against the door, staring at Bridger. His face seemed somehow distorted, both his eyes and mouth stretched in horror. Bridger waited, feeling the hairs rising on the back of his neck. Something was very wrong. But the man seemed trapped in a moment of abject fear, and didn't seem able to break the spell and tell him what it was.

Bridger felt a sudden urge to back away, to close the door against this apparition. Instead, he stepped forward, putting a hand on the man's shoulder and offering up a silent prayer of thanks for UEO standard-issue nametags.

"Jensen," he said gently. The man seemed to slump slightly, and his arm fell to his side, as if an invisible wire that had been holding it up had been cut. He turned his head to look at the captain, and now his face seemed human, although still frightened.

"Captain," he said, and his voice cracked slightly. "I think you'd better come with me."

------

Marks strode through the still-opening shuttle-bay doors with a face like thunder and stood toe-to-toe with Captain Bridger. He noticed she was slightly taller than him, so that he had to look up to meet her eyes.

"Captain," she said coldly. "I thought we discussed the importance of preserving evidence as quickly as possible last night. Clearly you failed to understand my reasoning."

_As if this day wasn't bad enough already_, Bridger sighed inwardly, but he did not step back; instead, he inclined his head slightly in a contrite way without taking his eyes off her face. "I do apologise, Ms. Marks," he said in a placatory tone. "But I'm afraid we have a situation here which requires your immediate attention."

Marks raised one eyebrow. "I fail to see what could be more important than doing my job," she said.

"If you would be so kind as to follow me, I'll explain on the way," Bridger said.

------

"There are two possibilities here," Bridger said, leaning against the corridor wall outside the science lab. "Either whoever was responsible for that massacre on the base stowed away aboard one of our shuttles and came here, or we have a copycat killer on our hands."

Doctor Westphalen pursed her lips and frowned. She still looked shell-shocked. Bridger didn't blame her. But before she could respond, another voice interrupted them. "I think we can discount both those theories, captain."

They turned, surprised, to see the male member of the investigation team lounging in the doorway, a half-smile on his long features. "Oh?" Bridger asked, raising an eyebrow. "How so?"

Ryder shrugged, and stepped forward into the corridor, gesturing at the scene inside the science lab, where his two colleagues were examining the room inch by inch. "The victim was stabbed. Of the six victims at the base, two were killed with blunt objects, one had his throat cut and three were shot, one of those most likely self-inflicted. If this was a copy-cat, we'd expect to see a similar MO."

Bridger frowned. "What about the stow-away theory?"

Ryder shook his head. "All the evidence at the base points to an incidence of insanity, probably brought on by the isolation. The different methods of the killer, the apparent suicide, the fact that the victims were simply killed, rather than interfered with in any way... It's just not serial killer material. If the guy who did that were still alive, and on this boat now, he'd be more likely to be spraying the bridge with bullets than killing a single victim in the dead of night."

"So what are you saying?" Westphalen asked, her face pale but composed.

Ryder thought for a moment, then said: "This seems to me like plain old premeditated murder. Someone with a grudge against the victim. Someone who knew her personally."

Bridger shook his head slowly. "It seems like a pretty big coincidence that this would happen now."

Ryder shrugged again. "Maybe the killer has been waiting for an opportunity for months, and it just happened to come along now. Maybe they thought if they acted now, you would jump to the conclusion that it was connected to what happened at the base and thus overlook them in the investigation. Either way, I think the connection is slim to non-existent."

Westphalen rubbed her hands over her face. "I can't believe this," she said quietly. "I can't believe anyone would do this."

Ryder looked at her sympathetically. "Well, we're going to find out who it was, don't you worry." He took a notepad out of his pocket. "Is it ok if I ask you a few questions?" Westphalen nodded. "Did the victim have any enemies that you know of?"

"No," Westphalen said, shaking her head. "She was very well-liked."

Ryder nodded, writing something down. Then he opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by the appearance of Lucas from around a bend in the corridor. The boy looked surprised to see the three of them standing there.

"Captain," he said. "I'm glad you're here. I wanted to apologise—" Whatever else he had been planning to say was lost when Westphalen suddenly started shouting.

"Lucas Wolenczak! What on earth do you think you're doing? I told you to stay in bed until I gave you permission to leave!"

Bridger turned to stare at her in astonishment, and saw that her face was turning red with anger. He turned back to look at Lucas; the boy was staring at Westphalen too, mouth slightly open, frowning in surprise.

"Uh... Well, I thought I was only supposed to be there overnight," he started, stammering slightly. "And I waited for you... But you didn't turn up, so..."

"No excuses, young man," Westphalen's voice had a shrill note to it now. "Back to bed this instant! And don't you dare disregard my orders again!"

For a moment, Lucas just stared at her, a flush creeping over his cheeks and neck. Then, abruptly, his mouth snapped shut and his face became tight with anger. "Yes, sir," he said sarcastically, and turned sharply, disappearing back round the bend again.

"What was that all about?" Bridger asked incredulously, turning to stare at Westphalen once more, only to discover that she looked like she was on the verge of tears. She shook her head miserably.

"I just didn't want him to see..." she gestured at the science lab. "Not after what happened last time..."

"Last time?" Ryder interrupted, looking curious, although also slightly embarrassed to have witnessed the scene.

Bridger nodded. "Lucas was down in the base before the power was on. He had a... catatonic episode when he saw one of the bodies."

"Interesting," Ryder muttered, and wrote something down. But Bridger wasn't paying attention to him. He stepped forward, putting a hand on Westphalen's shoulder.

"Kristin, I understand why you did what you did," he said gently, "but do you really think it was the best way to go about things? You were pretty unfair."

Westphalen leant against the corridor wall as if all the strength had gone out of her. "I know," she said quietly, a tear sliding down her cheek. "It's just... With all he's been through. And this time it was someone he knew." She looked up, wiping her face and seeming to get a grip on herself. "I'll go and apologise. I don't know what I was thinking." She took a step forward, but Ryder grabbed her by the arm.

"I know this is important to you, but if you wouldn't mind just answering these questions first," he said. The doctor stood still for a moment, staring at the bend around which Lucas had disappeared a few moments before. Then she sighed, and turned back to Ryder.

"Of course," she said.

------

In the event, it was over an hour before Westphalen finally managed to make her excuses and hurry towards the med bay. The feeling of guilt inside her had turned to a lead weight in her stomach by then. Her thoughts seemed muddled up in her head, and somehow she kept having to force down an urge to laugh.

_Someone had killed one of her staff_.

_She had screamed at Lucas_.

Nothing seemed to make sense any more. She longed for a cup of coffee, but first she had to go and apologise to Lucas, the poor child. She rounded the corner into med bay and stopped short, staring through the glass wall of the office into the main room. He wasn't there. She turned quickly to the orderly on duty. "Where's Lucas?"

The orderly looked up in surprise. "He left about twenty minutes ago," she said. "He waited for you for a while, then he said to tell you he'd see you around."

Westphalen stared at her, and suddenly a new thought entered her head.

_The killer is still out there somewhere_.

"Oh my God," she whispered, and flipped on her PAL.

------

Bridger was on his way to the ward room to apprise the UEO of the situation when his PAL went off. "Bridger here," he answered.

Westphalen's voice came over the channel. "Nathan. Lucas isn't in med bay. He's wandering around the boat somewhere."

Bridger understood immediately what she was getting at. He flipped the PAL channel to call Lucas, but before he could, he received another incoming call.

"Captain, this is Krieg. I think you'd better come down to the science deck right away."

Bridger started to run.

------

The scene in the science deck corridor was chaotic, but Bridger homed in on one element immediately: Lucas was there. He was sitting on the floor next to Lieutenant Krieg, his face pale, staring at the wall. Krieg had his arm round the boy's shoulders and seemed to be talking to him gently. Bridger forced a way through the crowd of scientists and security team members towards them, and crouched down in front of Lucas.

"Hey Kiddo," he said gently. "What's going on?"

Lucas looked up at him and pointed at his feet. "There's blood on my shoes," he whispered.

Krieg hugged him tighter and indicated the doorway around which the crowd was thickest with a nod of his head. "He found the body," he said.

_Body_, Bridger thought. He stood up and made his way towards where he could see Crocker standing blocking the doorway.

"Cap," Crocker acknowledged him sombrely. Then he stood aside and Bridger stepped up to the doorway. Inside, Joshua Levin, his eyes wide and blank, lay sprawled face-up on the floor in a pool of blood.

_Well, I guess the serial-killer theory is back in play_, thought Bridger grimly.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

Fuzzy feelings and assorted gum drops for Helen 88216, KatKnits00, Diena, sara, Teresa, dolphinology, pari106, Karel, Kiddo and kas. Also thanks to everyone who took the time to review _Two's Company_. You guys are very cool.

OK, I finished this a day early, so here you go :). Hopefully be back with more next Thursday...

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Cabin Fever

Chapter 7

Westphalen sat down slowly on a stool in med-bay, staring at a point on the floor some distance in front of her. "I don't understand," she whispered.

Bridger rubbed his eyes. He knew how she felt. It wasn't even noon yet, but already it seemed like years since he had been awoken by Jensen. By the messenger of death. It was hard to imagine that two days before they had been cruising through the ocean towards the base with no concept of what awaited them there. Not for the first time, Bridger wished selfishly that some other submarine had been assigned this particular mission.

"I was talking to Levin yesterday," Westphalen said. "He was telling me about his experiments with Darwin. And now..." She looked up, her eyes dry, but filled with confusion. "Why is this happening?" she asked.

That question again. It always came down to that, in the end. It wasn't like they weren't used to death: Bridger had lost Robert and Carol, and seen many men fall in the line of duty; Westphalen had lost a brother and plenty of patients during her long career. But all they had learned from experience was that it never got any easier, and that there were no words that could wipe it all away. Stepping forward, Bridger enfolded the doctor in a gentle embrace, and felt her go limp for a moment in his arms. Then she pulled back, standing up and wiping imaginary tears from her cheeks.

"I've got to get on," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "There's a great deal of material to analyse from all the... bodies..." she trailed off, and turned away.

"Are you sure?" Bridger asked. "I know you and Levin were close. No-one would blame you if you took some time off."

Westphalen shook her head vehemently. "The work will be good for me." She took a step away from him, then looked back over her shoulder. "Did you speak to Lucas?"

Bridger nodded. "I sent him back to his room with Krieg."

"How did he seem?" asked the doctor anxiously.

Bridger paused for a moment, thinking. "Just... dazed," he said. "I'm going to go over there after I've spoken to Noyce."

"I'd like to examine him," Westphalen said.

"You'll have to go to his room," Bridger replied. "I'm confining him to quarters, and posting a guard on the door. This time was too close for comfort."

Westphalen hesitated. "I'm not sure that's the best approach, Nathan," she said carefully. "He may view it as some kind of punishment."

Bridger shook his head. "To be honest, right now my first priority is to make sure the killer doesn't come anywhere near him. I'll worry about his bruised feelings later."

Westphalen sighed. "Whatever you say. I'll drop in on him later today."

Bridger nodded. "Well, if you need anything at all, let me know," he said. Westphalen didn't answer, though: she didn't seem to be listening. Bridger closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his face with his hands, then turned and headed for the Ward Room to call Noyce.

------

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

Lucas continued to stare at his stockinged feet. "No," he said dully. "What did you say?"

Krieg suppressed a sigh. "Don't you have any other shoes?" he asked, as gently as he could. After they'd finished questioning him, the investigators had taken Lucas' shoes as evidence, and now Krieg stood in the bomb-site that served as the boy's quarters, searching for a replacement pair.

"No," Lucas replied.

Krieg spotted something in the corner, half-hidden under a pile of computer components and discarded clothing. "What about these?" he asked, triumphantly holding up a pair of scuffed and dirty tennis shoes.

Lucas' eyes flicked up briefly to focus on the shoes, then flicked back down to his feet again. "Oh. I guess I do have other shoes."

Krieg sat down next to him on the bed, feeling anxiety rise within him. He should be doing something, something to help the kid. But he couldn't think of anything that would. _Some morale officer you turned out to be_. But when he'd signed up, he hadn't really had multiple murders in mind.

He did the only practical thing he could think of – he started to pull one of the shoes onto Lucas' right foot. "Jeez, Lucas, your feet are freezing," he complained.

"Yeah, well, they took my shoes," Lucas explained, pointing at his feet. "There was blood on them," he added, seemingly as an afterthought.

Krieg stared at him for a moment. "I know," he said gently. "I know that Lucas. I was there, remember?"

Lucas looked up at him for a moment, and there was a brief flicker in his eyes. Then he looked down again. "Oh yeah. I remember now."

Krieg felt useless. It wasn't a feeling he was used to; normally whatever the situation, his mind was always working, trying to imagine ways out of it. He remembered his own feeling of shock when he had found out that Robert had been killed, the way he had been numb for weeks. People had tried to help him then, well-meaning people, but he had just wanted to scream at them. He pulled the other shoe onto Lucas' left foot, and then just put an arm round his shoulders and held him tightly.

------

The security officer on duty stood stiffly to attention as Bridger arrived at the door to Lucas' quarters. "At ease," the captain said. "Anything to report?"

"No, sir," the officer replied.

Bridger nodded and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Puzzled, he knocked again, but no sound came from the room beyond. He tried the handle, but it was locked. Suddenly anxious, he turned to the security officer. "Can you open this door for me?"

The officer nodded, pulling out a code key. He swiped the key through the reader, and the door unlocked. Bridger stepped through quickly, a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach; but Lucas was sitting on the bed, looking up at him in surprise.

Bridger frowned. "Didn't you hear me knocking?"

Lucas looked confused. "No, sir." He paused for a moment, looking as if he was trying to remember something. "I'm sorry, I guess I was... thinking."

Bridger sighed and pulled up a stool, carefully removing the half-eaten plate of food from it before sitting down. "How're you doing, Lucas? Do you have everything you need?"

Lucas nodded. "Krieg went to get me something to eat. I'm OK. A bit spaced-out, is all." He looked around the little room. "How long you planning on keeping me locked up in here?"

"Until this whole thing blows over," Bridger said apologetically. "I'm sorry, Lucas, but it's for your own good."

Lucas nodded calmly. "Well, I guess I'll be off the ship soon anyway, and you won't have to worry about me any more."

"Off the ship?" Bridger frowned. "What do you mean?"

Lucas looked at him blandly. "My trip with Nick, remember?"

Bridger closed his eyes. He remembered now. Lucas' shore leave had been arranged for months; he was planning to hang out with his friend Nick on the Pacific island the latter called home when he wasn't at Node 3. It had been all Lucas could talk about recently. Up until yesterday, that was.

"I'm sorry Lucas, but UEO orders are that no-one is to leave the ship until the murders are solved." He had known that this wouldn't go over well, but he wasn't prepared for the sudden icy anger in Lucas' stare.

"What?" the boy said incredulously. "You mean you're going to make me stay here?" His voice began to rise. "I can't believe you're doing this to me!"

Bridger held up his hands in a placatory gesture. "Lucas, if it was up to me I'd let you go – God knows, the last thing I want is for you to be stuck on this ship with a killer loose out there. But Noyce was very clear that no-one was to leave."

Lucas jumped to his feet. "Don't give me that crap!" he yelled. "You and Westphalen cooked this up to keep an eye on me! You've been trying to find a way to control my life ever since I came on board!"

Bridger was on his feet now, too. "Don't use that tone of voice with me," he said evenly.

Lucas glared at him. "Oh, so now you're pulling that 'Commanding Officer' act on me, right?"

Bridger felt his blood begin to boil. "No, Lucas, I'm pulling the 'I'm your guardian and you'll do as I say' act. I can't believe you're acting this selfishly! How can you be so worried about your little holiday? Do I need to remind you that two people are dead?"

Lucas looked as if Bridger had slapped him. His mouth set suddenly in a hard line. "Get out," he said quietly between clenched teeth.

Bridger shook his head. "This conversation isn't finished yet, Lucas."

"Get out of my room!" Lucas yelled, loud enough to make Bridger jump. "You can make me stay here, but I damn well get to choose who'll be here with me!"

Bridger stared at him for a moment, assessing his options. Then, without a word, he turned and left, ignoring the security officer's stare as he stormed down the corridor.

------

"Calm down, Nathan," Westphalen said sternly. Bridger stopped pacing and stared at her.

"I honestly don't know what to think," he said, shaking his head.

The doctor sighed, her stern expression melting into sadness. "From what you've told me, it sounds like you both overreacted," she said, sounding tired. "It's understandable that Lucas wouldn't want to stay here, given how he's been affected by this. And it's understandable that he'd be angry, considering you basically told him that he didn't care enough that his friend was dead."

Bridger sat down heavily on a stool and put his head in his hands. "Oh God, do you think that's what he thought I meant?"

Westphalen stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder and wondering how men could be so unaware of how their words affected others. "Blame isn't going to help anyone," she said quietly. "We all have enough on our plates already without dealing with that too. Go and talk to him later, when you've both calmed down. I'm sure he won't hold it against you."

Bridger looked up. "You're right," he said quietly, and was about to continue when Marks appeared at the laboratory door.

"Any news on the DNA samples yet, doctor?" she asked crisply.

Westphalen glanced at an array of scientific apparatus on a table in the corner. "I'm expecting the results in a few minutes, actually," she said.

"DNA?" Bridger asked, looking up.

Marks nodded. "There were skin cells under Monaghan's fingernails," she said, coming all the way into the room. "She didn't go down without a fight." Westphalen looked slightly ill and turned away.

"Do you have anything to report about your findings so far?" Bridger asked, back in business-like mode again.

"Well, we can say that both bodies were dispatched in the same way," Marks said cheerfully. "A single knife thrust between the ribs. We have yet to determine if the same weapon was used each time, but we're assuming it was. The killer seems to have a good knowledge of human anatomy – he knew exactly where to strike to cause death with the minimum amount of effort."

"Well that doesn't narrow it down much," said Bridger. "All the military personnel and most of the scientists aboard this ship have training in anatomy."

Marks nodded thoughtfully. "It does tell us something, though," she said. "It's strange behaviour from a serial killer. The bodies were not interfered with, nothing was taken from them, nothing twisted... It's almost what we'd expect from a professional assassin. Whoever the killer is, it seems he just wanted these people dead as quickly as possible."

Bridger shuddered. "That doesn't make sense. Why would anyone assassinate two scientists on a submarine?"

Marks shook her head. "So far, we've drawn a blank as to motive. Monaghan had a relationship with someone in Engineering, but we've detected nothing suspicious about his behaviour. Both crew members seem to have been well-liked, and we can't find anything that connects the two crimes." She paused for a moment. "I'd like to interview Wolenczak again," she said.

Westphalen stood up. "I'd rather you didn't," she said firmly. "He's having a difficult time coping as it is."

"I understand that," Marks replied, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Nonetheless, that young man was the first at the scene of the second murder. I like to be thorough in my investigations. I find it helps."

Her sarcastic tone was not lost on Westphalen, who bristled, drawing herself up to her full height. "According to your own calculations, Levin had been dead for an hour or more before Lucas found him," she said coldly. "I can't see how he can provide you with any more information than he already has."

Marks' eyebrow raised a little higher, and she turned, addressing Bridger now. "I was told I would have full cooperation in this investigation, captain," she said, and there was a marked absence of warmth in her voice.

Westphalen's expression grew tight. "Badgering a child who has just been through Hell with pointless questions is hardly-"

Something in the corner beeped. Westphalen, interrupted in mid-flow, turned to see what it was, then hurried over. "The DNA results," she said, beginning to type something into the computer. Bridger and Marks strode over to watch over her shoulders. Photographs of _seaQuest_ crew members began to flash rapidly on the screen as the computer searched for a matching DNA profile. And then... it stopped. Westphalen blinked.

"Hoyle, security," she said.

Bridger, peering over her shoulder at the face on the screen, frowned as he tried to work out where he'd seen it recently. Then, a sick feeling began to grow in his stomach. He remembered the man's face, watching him with an odd look as he strode away. Standing in the corridor outside a door. Lucas' door.

"Are you all right, Nathan?" Westphalen asked, looking at him with surprise as he turned abruptly and started for the door.

But Bridger wasn't listening. He grabbed his PAL. "Krieg, are you with Lucas?" he asked urgently.

"No, sir, I'm in my quarters," the lieutenant's voice came back. "Lucas told me to leave him alone."

Bridger broke into a run, ignoring Westphalen's voice behind him. "Security to Mammal Engineering," he yelled into his PAL, pounding down the metal stairs to Lucas' floor, thanking God it wasn't too far. He heard running footsteps behind him, and shouts, but he didn't turn. He ran along the corridor, turning a bend and seeing to his horror while still 200 yards away that Lucas' door was open and no-one was on duty outside it. "Lucas!" he yelled, sprinting forwards. But then he heard a sound which made his heart freeze within him.

It was a gunshot.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

Non-sharp objects for kas7, Kiddo, Helen88126, Karel, sara, Alexis Rose, dolphinology, Diena, pari106 and KatKnits00.

Well, I got really excited about this story, and since lots of people seemed keen for me to hurry up I finished this chapter a lot sooner than expected – hopefully that doesn't mean a drop in quality, though ;). I can't promise another chapter by Thursday, but you never know...

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Cabin Fever

Chapter 8

When he looked back on it later, Bridger would never be able to remember how he got to Lucas' doorway. All he remembered was the gunshot, followed by two more, and then somehow he was standing there, staring in horror at the scene within.

Hoyle lay spread-eagled face down on the floor, his head a bloody mess, his left arm flung out over Lucas' chest. The teenager was on his back, eyes wide and blank, staring at the ceiling, his face and shirtfront drenched in dark-red blood. For a moment, Bridger found himself unable to move, unable even to breathe; he felt as though something was choking him, squeezing his throat shut. And one thought kept repeating itself in his head: _Not again. Not again._

Then he heard a tiny noise and saw Lucas' hand move slightly, where it was visible under Hoyle's ribcage. Strength flooded back into his body, and he leaped forward, hurling Hoyle's body aside as if it weighed nothing at all. "Lucas," he gasped, lifting the boy by his shoulders. "Lucas, speak to me."

Lucas just stared right through him, his eyes empty and lifeless. Then he blinked, and focussed on Bridger's face. "Captain?" he said, sounding confused.

Relief coursed through Bridger's body like cool water, and he closed his eyes, tears running down his cheeks, and hugged the boy tightly to his chest. "Oh, thank God," he whispered, feeling Lucas' hair, stiff with drying blood, brush roughly against his cheek. He didn't know how long they sat there, but finally he pushed the boy away, examining him more closely. "Are you hurt?"

Lucas shook his head, rubbing his forehead wearily. He pulled his hand away, then stared at it; viscous liquid dripped from it, and his eyes grew wide, the blue contrasting sharply with his maroon-stained face. "It's not mine," he said quietly. "It's not my blood."

There was a clatter in the corridor outside, and Westphalen appeared suddenly in the doorway, out of breath and gasping. "Nathan, what-- oh my God." She was kneeling beside Lucas in a second. Lucas looked up at her, his face filled with astonishment.

"He shot himself," he said in wonder, almost as if he was talking to himself. "He tried to shoot me, and then he shot himself."

"Just like down at the base," Bridger muttered to himself.

"What?" Westphalen looked round at him, frowning.

"The sixth man at the base. He killed all the others, and then he shot himself," Bridger said, louder this time.

Lucas looked over at Hoyle's mangled body, fluid still leaking from what was left of his head, and swallowed. Then he jumped to his feet and ran out of the room.

Bridger shot a glance at Westphalen, who nodded. "Go," she said. "I'll call the investigators."

Bridger gave her a grateful smile and was on his feet and out of the door almost in the same moment. It didn't take long to find Lucas: as he entered the men's bathroom he heard a retching sound from one of the cubicles. Gently, he knocked on the door. "Lucas? Are you in there?"

There was the sound of a toilet flushing then Lucas appeared in the doorway, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He started to speak, then froze, staring in horror at something behind Bridger. The captain turned, and saw that he was looking at his own blood-drenched face in the mirror.

"Oh Jesus," Lucas whispered.

Bridger put an arm round his shoulders. "Come on," he said firmly. "Let's get you in the shower."

------

Lucas' room was a mess. Saarinen, the pale, waif-like investigator, was carefully inspecting the body. Westphalen stood outside in the corridor, her pants legs stained dark brown from kneeling on the bloody floor, looking exhausted. When she saw Bridger approaching, she stood up straight, her face taking on a concerned expression.

"How's Lucas?" she asked.

Bridger sighed. "He's in my quarters," he said. "I guess he's sleeping there tonight."

Westphalen nodded, and the two of them watched for a while as Saarinen went about her work.

"You know, none of this seems real," Westphalen said, breaking the silence. "It feels like years since I woke up this morning. So much has happened."

Bridger nodded, feeling weariness begin to creep into his own bones. It was late, after all, and it had been an unusually stressful day. "We should get some rest."

Westphalen closed her eyes. "I still have so much material to analyse," she said. "More now." She gestured expressively to the scene before them.

"It can wait till the morning," Bridger said. "It's not urgent. Not any more."

"Well." Westphalen hesitated. "I suppose you're right. I'll come and say good night to Lucas, then I'll go to bed."

Bridger nodded. "Let's go," he said, and the two of them turned their back on the carnage and headed back to something more closely approximating sane reality.

------

------

Westphalen sat back and rubbed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. She had been working since the early morning, and the fact that she had hardly slept the night before wasn't helping. But she thought that maybe – just maybe – she was coming close to a solution. _So much for all this rubbish about ghosts and supernatural presences_, she thought irritably. _Funny how the 'hauntings' have conveniently stopped now that Hoyle is dead. _

Her thought was interrupted by the appearance of Captain Bridger at the lab doorway. He smiled at her sympathetically. "You look exhausted."

"Yes, well you would be too if you'd spent all day looking at blood samples," she snapped, then instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry," she said, in a gentler tone.

Bridger grinned. "There's no need to apologise. Believe me, you're not the only one who's cranky today."

Westphalen returned the smile. "Did Lucas get off alright?"

Bridger nodded. "I have never seen anyone so glad to be going on shore leave. Not even Krieg." He smiled slightly at the memory. "On the other hand, O'Neill seemed less than happy about his own little break from _seaQuest_."

"I'm not surprised," Westphalen replied. "I can't say I'd be particularly keen on baby-sitting a couple of teenagers who really don't think they need adult supervision. But I'm glad someone went along. I'm sure Lucas' friend – what was his name again?"

"Nick," Bridger supplied.

"Well, I'm sure he's very nice, but..."

"I know." Bridger sat down on a stool. "With Lucas in the state he's in, I want to be sure someone's keeping an eye on him. To be honest, I wouldn't have let him out of my sight at all, but being on the boat seemed to be making him worse. I had to pack a bag for him – he wouldn't go anywhere near his room."

Westphalen nodded. "I don't blame him," she said, almost to herself.

------

O'Neill sighed and tried not to look too disgruntled as he turned the car onto a narrow road that led to the summit of a low hill overlooking the beach. He had a pounding headache – in fact, it was pounding to the exact same rhythm as the ear-bleeding music pumping out of the car's specially rigged sound-system. It seemed that being the designated driver didn't give him any control over the stereo, and as the bass thrummed through O'Neill's bones he decided that if Lucas ever got a car he was never going to get into it. If Nick – who was highly intelligent, but no genius – could do this to a stereo, he hated to think what Lucas would get up to.

Actually, he hated to think what Lucas _was_ getting up to at that very moment. It seemed to involve rolling the top down, whooping and waving his arms in the air while his friend yelled "Go Frankie!" O'Neill wished, not for the first time, that someone else had been assigned this duty. He was torn between his sympathy for his young friend wanting to get it all out of his system after the last few nightmarish days, and his feeling of responsibility and, if he was to be honest with himself, distaste for his behaviour.

At that moment, Lucas stood up in his seat, and O'Neill jammed on the brakes and flicked off the stereo. "Lucas, sit down," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. Lucas, overbalanced by the car's sudden halt, fell forward against the back of the passenger seat, then sat down with a grin.

"What, you don't like the music?" he asked, laughing.

O'Neill closed his eyes, drew a deep breath and counted to ten. As he opened them again, he thought he saw a shadow moving on the dark road outside. _Probably just a cat_, he thought. "Guys, listen, I know you just want to have some fun, but cut me some slack here, huh?" He had to admit, as admonishments went, it was kind of wimpy.

"Ah, come on Tim, lighten up," Nick was grinning. O'Neill thought that if no-one ever told him to 'lighten up' again, it would be too soon. But he bit back the irritable remark that came to his lips.

"Put your seat-belt on," he said to Lucas as firmly as he could. To his surprise, the boy complied, shooting him a sympathetic glance. Tim nodded, and started the car, glad that there was no traffic on these dirt roads at this time of night. Overhead, the stars gleamed brightly, and the night air was balmy and smelt of tropical flowers. All the same, O'Neill suddenly felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

------

Westphalen was bent over the microscope in the Med Bay when Bridger arrived. "You called?" he asked.

Westphalen nodded excitedly. "I think I may have found the key to all this."

Bridger raised his eyebrows, stepping closer. "Go on."

"Well, I analysed a sample of Hoyle's blood and compared it to the blood from the suicide in the base. I found that both had a large quantity of antibodies, more than one would expect in a healthy adult. When I looked closer, I realised that they weren't antibodies at all."

"What were they?" Bridger asked, his interest piqued.

"Viral cells, disguised as antibodies," Westphalen said triumphantly. "That's why I didn't catch them when I first analysed the samples from the bodies on the base."

"A virus?" Bridger stared at her in astonishment. "What kind of virus causes killing sprees and suicide?"

Westphalen shook her head. "I don't know yet. I don't know anything about it, how it's transmitted, how it affects the victim – but none of the other bodies from the base show the virus in their bloodstream, so we can assume it's not highly contagious."

"Well, thank God for that," Bridger said. "All the same, we should screen the crew."

Westphalen nodded. "I agree. Now that I've found it, it should be reasonably easy to concoct a vaccine."

Bridger frowned. "This doesn't explain the... strange incidents that the crew have been reporting."

Westphalen waved a hand dismissively. "Foolish superstition. They hear that something is haunted, and suddenly 'strange' things start happening. This is science, Nathan, not mumbo-jumbo."

Nathan opened his mouth to tell her about the odd feelings he had had in the shuttle bay, and then thought better of it. Luckily, at that moment Ryder walked into the room, carrying a box. Bridger turned to greet him, then frowned at the grim look on his face. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"We found the murder weapon," Ryder said, pulling a plastic bag out of the box. Inside was a long, wicked-looking knife, stained with blood. "The blood is Levin's," he said.

Westphalen shuddered. "Where did you find it?"

Ryder raised one eyebrow. "Wolenczak's room. Under the bed."

Bridger frowned. "Hoyle must have dropped it in the struggle."

Ryder nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought too. But Wolenczak's prints are the only ones on it."

Bridger stared at him. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, carefully.

Ryder didn't answer for a moment. Then he pulled a baseball shirt and a pair of jeans out of the box. "I found these in the garbage compactor." The front of each item was stiff and dark-brown; Bridger had seen that colour often enough to know what it meant.

"Those are the clothes Lucas was wearing when Hoyle shot himself," he said, blankly, wondering what this had to do with anything. He glanced at Westphalen, then did a double take – she was staring at the clothes, her eyes wide.

"No," she whispered, opening a drawer and pulling out a plastic wrapped bundle. "These are the clothes Lucas was wearing when Hoyle shot himself."

For a moment, there was a dead silence in the room. Then Westphalen turned, and called out in a calm, steady voice to an orderly who was working on the other side of the room. "Mr. Waters, could you bring me the blood samples we took from Mr. Wolenczak when he was here the other day?"

------

O'Neill stared down at the beach below, sure he had seen somebody moving down there. He screwed up his eyes, wondering if he needed new glasses. Something brushed past his ear and he shivered, his hand moving convulsively to scrub at it. Now he remembered why he hated night-time in the tropics – the insects were as big as your head.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder and he turned. Lucas was grinning at him, thrusting a bottle into his hand. "You gotta try some of this, Tim, it'll take your head off."

O'Neill stared at the bottle suspiciously. "What's in it?"

"No alcohol. Scouts honour," Lucas said with an odd smile. Nick made a disappointed noise. "Go on," Lucas urged, ignoring him. "I made it specially."

Sighing, O'Neill took a gulp, swallowing reflexively, then grimaced. "I thought you said there was no alcohol in this?"

Lucas laughed, and Nick grabbed the bottle off him, taking a big gulp. "Jeez, Lucas, this is disgusting," he said. "What the Hell's in it?"

Lucas regarded him seriously. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Nick laughed and took another pull, grimacing. "Strong stuff," he said, handing the bottle back to his friend.

Lucas took a couple of gulps, and grinned. "Well, seeing as how Tim won't let us go to any bars, I thought we might as well have _some_ fun."

------

Westphalen sat back from the microscope. "He's got it," she said, uncomprehendingly, then turned to look at Bridger with an expression of pure horror on her face. "It was Lucas," she whispered. "Lucas killed Levin."

Bridger didn't need any more cues; he flipped on his PAL. "Commander, get me O'Neill," he said tensely.

There was a pause, and then Ford's answer came back. "He's not answering his PAL, sir."

Bridger felt a sick feeling wash over him. "How soon can we be at that island?"

"You mean the one where Lucas and O'Neill are on shore leave?" Ford sounded confused. "At full speed, maybe an hour?"

Bridger nodded. "Set a course, put a trace on O'Neill's PAL and keep trying to contact him," he said brusquely, flipping the PAL off without waiting for Ford's reply. Westphalen was still sitting, staring at him in shock. His nightmarish feeling of fear was threatening to overwhelm him, but he fought it back down. _Stay focussed_, he ordered himself. _Stay focussed, and pray we find them in time_.

------

O'Neill was sure he could see someone standing down on the beach now. Of course, it could just be a local out for a walk, but Nick had said that this end of the island was deserted. He leaned forward, wondering why the night seemed darker than it had before. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a fumbling movement, but when he put them back on the outlines of things were still blurry. He squinted, then turned to ask Lucas if he was having trouble with his eyes too. He was surprised to see both Lucas and Nick sleeping in the back seat. _Oh well_, he thought. _Guess their youthful exuberance finally caught up with them_. To be honest, he was feeling pretty sleepy himself. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Through the dark fog that drifted over his mind he thought he could hear his PAL chirping, and someone calling his name. He struggled briefly to concentrate on it, but soft hands kept pulling him back, and soon he gave up and allowed himself to slip gently into the darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1.

Many thanks to everyone who reviewed: Mariel3 (x2), Yury (x4), kas, kbandy, dreamofshadows, sara, Kiddo, pari106, Karel, Alexis Rose, dolphinology, Diena and KatKnits00.

Mariel3: Hey, I'm going as fast as I can ;). Don't worry, there's no way I'd just abandon this story...

Karel: Hee! You've seen through my evil ploy...

Kiddo: Heh. I had a feeling you wouldn't like this plot development...

So yeah, sorry about being a bit slow with the update this time, folks. I've had exams and then I've been travelling. Hope it was worth the wait ;).

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Cabin Fever

Chapter 9

On the bridge of the _seaQuest_ there was an atmosphere of tense efficiency; crewmen went about their assigned tasks quietly, and without question. Something was going on, something bad enough to make the captain short-tempered and edgy, but none of them knew what it was, beyond the fact that it had something to do with O'Neill not answering his PAL. Although Miguel Ortiz knew that there could be any number of legitimate reasons for that, he trusted Bridger enough to be seriously worried about the wellbeing of his crewmate and friend. _And Lucas_, he reminded himself.

"How long?" Bridger asked, and although his voice was even Ortiz could hear the sharp edges beneath it.

Ford checked the display. "Twenty minutes, sir," he replied coolly, then stepped closer and said something in a low voice. Ortiz watched them, wondering if Ford was in on whatever the big secret was. Bridger was shaking his head, looking angry; Ford stepped back and resumed his position at parade rest in the centre of the bridge, his face impassive. Bridger glanced over, and Ortiz looked quickly down at his instruments, scanning the surrounding area automatically, though not really taking in the results.

Everything was weird. Well, yes, serial killings at your place of work were always going to be pretty weird, but there was more to it than that. Rumours had been circulating like wildfire since Bridger had lifted the lock-down after Hoyle's death; some said he had been murdered, others that he _was_ the murderer. Ortiz thought the latter explanation pretty unlikely; he had played poker with Hoyle a few times, and hung out with him, he seemed totally normal. Not the serial-killer kind of normal, either, just white-bread, career-navy normal. But then, if he wasn't the killer, then why wasn't the ship still locked-down?

The rumours about Hoyle weren't the only ones going round: some crew members were whispering about vengeful spirits, transferred from the marine outpost to the _seaQuest_. Ortiz had to admit, there'd been something weird about the atmosphere in the boat even before the first murder; he'd lost count of the number of times over the last few days that he'd found himself looking over his shoulder nervously. It was really coming to something when the most rational-seeming explanation involved supernatural forces, he thought wryly.

But then, rationality didn't seem to be very relevant any more. Three people – people he had known, people he had liked – were dead, and the _seaQuest_ was hurtling through the water at top speed because O'Neill and Lucas were on holiday in paradise and wouldn't pick up the phone. They were probably drunk in some bar somewhere, trying to pick up some local girls. Ortiz ignored the voice in his head that told him that O'Neill would never let Lucas go to a bar, and _certainly_ not let him get drunk. That was the only explanation he was willing to countenance, because all the other possibilities made him feel nauseous.

------

"So you're asking me to lie?"

Westphalen put her head in her hands. She felt like she hadn't had a decent night's sleep in years, and she was constantly aware of the gnawing sensation of fear in her stomach. She really wasn't up to dealing with this. "Just... don't say anything," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "Not until we've had a chance to find out the full story."

Ryder raised his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair with a slight grin. "I hate to tell you this, but the story's looking pretty obvious from where I'm sitting."

Westphalen glared at him, disgusted with his flippancy, and he sat up straight, suddenly serious. "Look, I know you're trying to protect the kid," he said quietly. "And that's laudable. But you can't just pretend like nothing's going on. Everyone's going to work it out, sooner or later."

Westphalen shook her head. "There's no reason anyone has to know."

"You're kidding," Ryder said, but without rancour. "He's killed a man, maybe more than one now." Westphalen felt her stomach lurch, and he must have seen it in her face, because he leaned forward, looking sympathetic. "Look, it's totally against my ethical code to lie about something like this."

Westphalen felt the despair that she had been holding back begin to flood through her, until she realised that Ryder hadn't finished. "But..." he said, frowning. "But I'll try and stall them, at least until you get the kid back on the boat. But you've got to face up to the fact that you can't keep it secret forever."

Westphalen stared at him, thinking that she had never been so grateful to anyone before. Then her PAL chimed, and she grabbed it, stabbing at the buttons. "Westphalen," she said brusquely.

Bridger's reply was just as short. "Bring a med team and meet me in the shuttle bay in ten minutes."

Westphalen didn't even bother to answer, but was on her feet and out of the door in seconds, leaving Ryder to stare after her.

------

"Do you see him?" Bridger asked. Ford looked down at the tracker in his hand, noted the flashing red dot.

"Yes, sir. He's near the beach."

Bridger nodded curtly and moved into the cockpit, presumably to harass the pilot. Ortiz shuffled a little closer to Ford. "Do you have any idea what's going on, Commander?"

Ford looked at him, stony-faced. "We're going to find O'Neill and Lucas," he said.

"Yeah, but..." Ortiz gestured at the weapon he had slung across his chest. "_Tranquilizer _guns?"

Ford's expression didn't change. "The captain is worried about the possibility of large animals."

Ortiz raised his eyebrows. "Oh, come on, sir. I'm no expert in zoology, but I'm pretty sure islands in the middle of thousands of miles of empty ocean don't generally have sabre-toothed tigers roaming around on them."

A muscle in Ford's jaw twitched. "Since when do you need explanations in order to be able to follow orders, soldier?"

Ortiz backed down immediately. _So it's like that, is it_, he thought, but all he said was, "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Ford nodded once, then went back to staring at the opposite wall. Ortiz watched him for a moment, wondering what was going on in his head. _Man, this has been a weird day._

At that moment, there was grating noise as the shuttle struck land. Bridger was back in the body in an instant. "Everybody out," he said, and Ortiz jumped through the still-opening door into the knee-high surf, slinging his gun over his shoulder and heading to where the shuttle's lights illuminated white sand. The sky overhead was studded with millions of tiny points of light, and the air was warm and richly scented. It seemed like paradise. But Ortiz suddenly felt cold.

------

Ford moved quickly through the sparse, scrubby growth up the side of a low rise, following the blinking dot on his tracker. He was aware of Bridger and the others following anxiously behind him, but underneath that awareness was a fluttering unease, like a reflection that slid away from him every time he tried to pin it down. The hairs on the back of his neck had been prickling ever since he stepped onto the beach, and now the feeling was spreading up onto his scalp. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision, but he knew, without turning to look, that there was nothing there. Although he could see the dark edge of a tropical forest less than half a mile inland, there was no sound of birds or insects in the air, and as he climbed even the rushing of the surf seemed to become dimmer and further away, until he could hear nothing but his own harsh breathing. The very air seemed to crackle with danger, and Ford realised he was clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt. Swallowing, he concentrated on ignoring the dancing shadows, and then he looked up to see the silhouette of a car on the crest of the hill.

------

There were three of them, in the car. O'Neill in the front, Lucas and another teenager in the back. They all seemed to be asleep, and Ford leaned over and shook O'Neill by the shoulder, finding it hard to think straight now through the silence that seemed to be invading his head, thinking only that they needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. O'Neill's head lolled, and the moonlight glinted off a trail of white foam that led from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Ford swallowed hard, and went to check the other man's pulse, only to feel a hand on his arm, restraining him. He turned, surprised, to see Doctor Westphalen behind him, her dark eyes huge in the dimness. "Don't," she mouthed, and Ford wondered why she was whispering. She said something else that Ford couldn't hear, and then pulled a pair of gloves out of her pocket and thrust them into his hands, pushing past him towards the car. Ford saw that she had gloves on, too. He wondered vaguely what that was all about.

------

Bridger had never been so sorry to be right as he was when he arrived at the car where Westphalen was already busily directing orderlies. He grabbed her arm, unable to articulate the question that he feared the answer to; she, however, understood perfectly. "They're all alive," she said, and he felt his knees turn to water in relief. "But we need to get them back to the _seaQuest_ as quickly as possible," she added.

Bridger nodded, trying desperately to fight down the urge to simply sit on the ground and weep. "What happened?" he asked thickly.

Westphalen glanced behind her. "I'm pretty sure they were poisoned," she said quietly, with a worried frown. "That makes treatment very difficult, since I have no idea what poison was used. But Lu-... but the perpetrator must have taken the poison from the _seaQuest_'s supplies, so we should be able to find out once we get there."

Behind them, an orderly opened the back door of the car, and Bridger dived forward to catch Lucas as he slumped out. Gently laying the boy down onto the waiting stretcher laid out on the sandy soil, Bridger felt fear begin to rise once more inside him. He had rescued Lucas and O'Neill, but now there was nothing more he could do. He felt useless and frustrated as he watched the med team bustling around the three figures. He thrust his fists into his pockets, and took a step back, colliding with someone. He turned to see Commander Ford looking at him blankly.

"Are you OK, Jonathan?" Bridger asked, concerned at the vacant expression on his XO's face.

Ford seemed to be looking straight through him, but then his eyes focussed. "Why is everyone whispering?" he asked, his voice overly loud.

Bridger stared at him. "I don't know what you mean."

An exasperated expression crossed Ford's face, and he put his hands up to his ears. "I can't _hear_ you!" he shouted, and Bridger stepped back, taken aback by the vehemence of his words. His surprise was only momentary, though, and he quickly stepped forward again and grabbed Ford by the shoulders, forcing him to return his gaze.

"Your mind's playing tricks on you, Commander," he said sharply. "Snap out of it. That's an order."

Ford blinked, then shook his head as if trying to rid himself of some unpleasant sensation. His eyes cleared, and he frowned. "Captain," he said, in careful, even tones, "what the Hell's going on around here?"

Bridger looked back at the three stretchers, the med team moving like ghosts around them, and remembered Levin's dead eyes and the horror on Lucas' bloodstained face. "I don't know, Commander," he said grimly. "But it has got to stop."


	10. Chapter 10

OK, so maybe everybody else is excitedly waiting for Santa to come down the chimney, but here I am, finally getting round to updating this story. Sad, really. A _huge_ apology to everyone for taking so bloody long about it, I have no excuse other than that I am Slack. Consider this my Christmas present to you all.

As always, mighty cheers and piles of turkey'n'trimmings for the lovely folks who reviewed: Yury, Darkness Amber, Karel, dolphinology, pari106, sara, KatKnits00, Diena, hepatica and Mariel3.

Yury: Thanks for your message! Merry Christmas to you too! Also, if you check out what Lucas and co were up to in the car, and what they ingested, you might be able to work out who poisoned them. That's all I'm sayin'

Karel: Um... blushes deeply and hangs head

Well, Merry Christmas one and all, and with any luck the next part will be out before we're all old and grey. crosses fingers

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Cabin Fever

Chapter 10

Med-bay was quiet when Bridger entered; too quiet. The bustle he'd expected, that he associated with the saving of lives from too many late-night reruns of 90s medical shows, was nowhere to be seen. _That's a good thing_, he told himself, stepping further into the room, but then he stopped in horror at the sight of a shrouded bed in the corner. He felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, and didn't see Westphalen until she grabbed his arm, squeezing hard, the pain bringing him back to reality. He stared at her and then at the bed, unable to voice the question. But she followed his line of sight and looked back, her face filled with sorrow.

"The boy," she said quietly, and then when she saw his face grow even paler, she added hastily, "Nick."

Bridger felt an incredible surge of relief for the third time in less than two days, and then hated himself for feeling it. "Nick," he whispered, trying to remember if he'd ever met the boy's parents, trying to imagine them at home now, waiting for their son to come back from his night out. And then trying not to imagine it any more. He rubbed his hands over his face, steeling himself. "What about the others?"

"They're here," Westphalen said, leading him to the other side of the room. "O'Neill will be fine," she continued, as they passed the bed where the lieutenant lay. "It seems he didn't ingest as much of the poison as the boys, and that, coupled with his greater body mass, meant we reached him in time. As for Lucas, he _should_ be fine..." She stopped by a bed, the same bed, Bridger realised, that the boy had been sleeping in just the night before last. Well, trying to sleep in, anyway. The recollection made Bridger draw his breath in sharply – he could see those pleading eyes in front of him, and yet here there was only a frail-looking child, his skin grey and almost translucent, breathing through a tube. Had he already had the virus that night, when he had been so withdrawn and grouchy, so... Lucas? And the next day, when he had thrown up after Hoyle killed himself? _Of course he had it by then_, Bridger reminded himself. _Levin was already dead by then_. A sudden thought struck him, making him feel nauseous. _What if Hoyle didn't kill himself?_

He was aware that Westphalen was speaking, but he interrupted. "How much of this will he remember when he wakes up?"

Westphalen stared at him in surprise, then shook her head. "Nathan, I'm not even sure if he _will_ wake up."

Bridger blinked. "But you just said he would be fine," he said, shocked.

Westphalen's expression was troubled. "No, I said he _should_ be fine. We reached him in time, we administered antidote and flushed the poison out of his system, he doesn't seem to have suffered any permanent damage, but..." She trailed off.

"But what?" Bridger could feel the bottom dropping out of his stomach again.

Westphalen lifted her gaze to meet his. "But he's slipping away from us," she said, her eyes glittering in the harsh light. "And I don't understand why," she added, almost in a whisper.

Bridger stared at her, suddenly noticing once again the deep lines around her eyes, the paleness of her skin and the dull shade of her hair. _Do I look that wrung out too?_ he wondered. They were exhausted, everyone on the boat was exhausted, and they were missing something. Something vital. And he was damned if he would just let Lucas "slip away" without working out what that something was.

"What does he need to recover?" he asked, and his voice sounded to him like it was coming from a long way away.

Westphalen shrugged disconsolately. "Nothing. Just willpower."

Bridger thought for a moment, feeling oddly calm. "The virus," he said, "it causes the infected person to commit suicide, right?"

Westphalen nodded, frowning. "That's right, but what..." Suddenly her face cleared. "The virus!"

Bridger leaned forward, gripping her arm. "Have you finished working on the cure?"

Westphalen shook her head. "I've been so busy..." She looked anguished.

"How much time do we have?" Bridger asked, feeling his grip tighten to the point where it must have been causing the doctor some pain, but somehow unable to stop it.

She glanced nervously at the bed. "I don't know... but I'll get right on it." Disengaging her arm from his grasp, she spun and left the room almost at a run, leaving him alone with the two unconscious figures.

Bridger stared after he for a moment, afraid to let the spark of hope inside him grow, afraid of being let down again. _Why did I come back here, to this life?_ He wondered, turning to look at Lucas but not really seeing him. _It took everything I loved once before, and now I've just given it the opportunity to repeat the trick_. He reached out to touch his young friend's cheek, and there was a loud crash behind him.

He spun sharply, to see that a stool had fallen, knocking over an IV stand. There was no-one in the room but him – at least, no-one who was alive and conscious. He felt his heart thumping hard against his ribcage, his stomach fluttering, but beneath all that he felt something inside him snap. _This has gone on long enough_.

"What are you?" he said loudly, forcing his voice to be confident and commanding. There was no answer, of course. The whole of med-bay seemed caught in a waiting silence; Bridger realised that even the humming of the engines seemed quieter than usual. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle, and resisted the urge to turn again, knowing there would be nothing there but the sleeping patients. He strode to the centre of the room, planting his feet a little apart on the floor and ignoring the strange shapes that were blurring the corners of his vision. "What do you want?" He demanded.

The only answer was his own ragged breathing. He concentrated on making it smooth and even, forcing down the irrational panic that was threatening to engulf him. He turned slowly in a full circle, as if seeking anything out of the ordinary, but in fact just letting his face be seen. Then he drew a deep breath.

"I'm damned if I'm going to let you kill any more of my crew, whatever you are," he said, very clearly. "I am the captain of this boat, not some naive child you can frighten by knocking over a few chairs. This is going to stop. Now." He waited for a moment, and when there was no answer, he began to stride towards the exit.

Suddenly there was a resounding crash, so loud that Bridger jumped in spite of himself. He turned to see that the gurney in the corner was lying on its side, and the body of Lucas' young friend lay tangled up in its shroud, face uncovered, sightless eyes staring straight at Bridger as if in silent rebuke. Bridger stared back – _but his eyes had been closed, hadn't they? _For a moment, he wavered. Then, he closed his own eyes against the sight, turned resolutely, and left the room.

The journey to the bridge was longer than it had ever been before. The MagLev doors refused to open, and so Bridger was left to walk through what felt like miles of oddly deserted corridors. The humming of the engines had faded completely now, to be replaced with whispering sounds at the very edge of his hearing, like people trying to speak to him. But when he tried to concentrate on them, they faded too, and the silence pressed in on his eardrums like a physical force. Every hair on his body was standing on end, and fighting the urge to turn and face whatever it was that was following him took almost all his energy. Every now and then he would hear a crash from an empty room he was passing, or see something skitter behind him out of the corner of his eye. He found himself wondering, in a detached sort of way, where on Earth the 200 crew members who should have been inhabiting this ship were hiding. And then he turned a corner and stepped through the door to the bridge.

And found himself back in med-bay.

Nick's body still lay sprawled on the floor where he had left it, the limbs twisted grotesquely, the eyes still open and blank. Bridger closed his eyes, feeling his stomach lurch sickeningly, and prayed that he was mistaken. But when he opened them again, he was still in the deserted med-bay, inhabited only by an unconscious adult and two children, one dying, one already dead. The bright light was no comfort; in fact, the very harshness of its bleached glare seemed somehow menacing and claustrophobic. Bridger reached for his PAL, feeling as if he was moving in slow-motion, but when he flipped it on there was a burst of static and then silence. He was beginning to feel as if someone had turned down the volume on the whole world. It was disorientating, losing one of his senses; it made him feel as if he was underwater. Which, of course, he was.

Forcing himself to breathe normally, he turned sharply and left med-bay once more. A few steps away from the door he stopped again; someone – something – was standing behind him. He stood stock still for a long moment, feeling as if somehow time had been suspended. Then he spoke, although he could barely hear his own voice.

"You will not beat me," he said, and he hoped he had said it with quiet assurance, but it was hard to tell. Then, without another word, he set off once more.

This time the whispering was louder; he could almost make out the words. The shapes on the threshold of his vision flickered more frantically; he could almost hear the breathing of whatever it was that followed behind him, and his passage through the corridors was marked by increasingly loud crashes and bangs. He ignored it all, concentrating on following the exact route from the med-bay to the bridge, repeating in his mind, _You will not beat me, you will not beat me_. A couple of times he found himself taking the wrong fork at a junction, or turning when he should be going straight on. He corrected himself carefully, despite the almost overwhelming urge to continue along the wrong route. And he was rewarded; after almost half an hour, he turned into a new stretch of corridor to see the clam doors of the bridge ahead of him. But there was someone standing in front of them.

Robert.

Bridger felt his legs go weak. Robert's face was blue and mottled, black water dripped from his soaking uniform onto the metal deck, the only sound in the oppressive silence. He was clearly dead; but his eyes were open, filled with fear and pain, and he stretched out his pale, dripping arms towards Bridger in mute appeal.

_I'm dead_, thought Bridger wildly. _There's no other explanation_. He stared at Robert, transfixed, half-way between terror and desperate grief; he could read the thoughts in the young man's eyes as clearly as if they were printed on a page. _I needed you, dad. I needed you, and you failed me_.

But then another set of eyes slipped into his mind, not brown like Robert's, but blue and pleading, and he straightened, facing the apparition that looked so much like his son.

"I'm sorry Robert," he said, and again it was like speaking into a vacuum – his words made no sound, and he couldn't be sure if he had even spoken aloud. "I wasn't there when you needed me. But Lucas needs me _now_, and I need to be there for him." Robert's expression didn't change; he continued to reach out to Bridger in despair and hope. But Bridger knew now it wasn't really his son; taking a deep breath, he opened the doors and stepped through the apparition. He felt nothing, not even a shiver down his spine, but suddenly noise flooded back into the world and the flickering shadows dissipated with an audible sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment, sending a silent apology to Robert, then strode to the centre of the bridge.

"Mr Ortiz," he rapped out, and Ortiz turned.

"Yes, sir," he said efficiently.

"I want you to target the trench wall above the base." He waited for an acknowledgement, but none came, and when he turned to look in surprise at his sensor chief, he saw the young Cuban was staring at him in total horror, his face pale against his black hair. "Mr Ortiz?" he asked, concerned, but the young man had leapt out of his chair and was backing away, holding out his hands in front of him. Bridger looked around to see that the rest of the bridge crew were staring at Ortiz in surprise. One or two were rubbing their ears or looking slightly nervous, but none of them had had the same reaction as the sensor chief. _It can only concentrate on one person at a time_, he thought, and headed straight for Ortiz' console.

Someone tackled him around the ankles and he crashed to the ground, feeling his ankle twist painfully under him. He saw Ford heading for him with an astonished look on his face, and saw his opportunity.

"Jonathan," he yelled. "Never mind me, fire torpedoes and bury that damn base! And don't pay any attention to anything you see!"

Ford turned smartly and headed for the console. Bridger saw the other man hesitate, the blood draining from his face, as if he could see something that Bridger could not; then he stepped forward resolutely and began to target the torpedoes. Bridger struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on a very pale-looking crew member who was apologising profusely for attacking him. _It's all going to be all right_, he thought as he saw Ford reach for the firing controls. _I've won_.

Then the lights on the bridge seemed to dim, and Bridger suddenly had a confused sensation of being surrounded by a crowd of people he could almost see and almost feel, all screaming at him silently with such force that he dropped to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears. Beside him, his erstwhile attacker had done the same. He tried to look up, to see if Ford had fired the torpedoes in time, but he felt like an invisible hand was pressing down on the back of his head. He closed his eyes. _It's not real, none of this is real_, he told himself, but the force and the pain in his ears seemed real enough to him. He began to feel as though his eardrums would burst.

And then there was an explosion of white light in his head, and everything went black.


	11. Chapter 11

Blah blah disclaimer blah.

Bumps in the night and shadows under the bed for Darkness Amber, hepatica, wanda, dolphinology and kas7.

Well, it's been a long ride, but thanks for sticking with me you guys. Here ya go.

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Cabin Fever

Chapter 11

It was the screaming that woke Bridger. The screaming was all around him, inside him and through him; the screaming _was_ him.

He opened his eyes. The white light that he had seen just before passing out was gone, and the bridge was dim, lit only by the emergency lighting, and above the screaming was the insistent sound of an alarm. As his senses came back to him, the screaming narrowed until he located its source: a woman, one of the few people still on the bridge, standing with her back to him, staring at something he couldn't see.

He sat up, clutching his head. What was she looking at? Why were they on emergency power? Where were the crew? He located Ford, who was crouched in corner with his arm across his face, as if fending something off. Struggling to his feet, he took a step forward, wincing and grabbing at the back of a chair as the pain in his ankle reminded him of why he had been on the floor in the first place. "Jonathan?"

All of a sudden he felt an intense feeling of being watched, as if something invisible but hugely malevolent had turned its attention towards him. Then the screaming was gone, and everything was gone, and the bridge was silent as the depths of the sea outside. The woman turned towards him, and he thought he recognised her face, but it was distorted in terror, her eyes and mouth stretched black in her pale skin. She was still screaming; but Bridger could no longer hear her.

And then Robert was standing in front of her, his eyes pleading, desperate. _Oh no_, thought Bridger, fighting down an urge to throw up. _We've been here before. You'll have to do better than that._ He ignored the tingling in his nerves that told him to run, using the adrenaline to better purpose. He took stock of the room. There were five crew members still there, besides himself; the screaming woman – what _was_ her name? – Ford, Ortiz passed out on the upper level of the bridge, Shan backing away from something over by the helm, and Hitchcock, looking pale but calm. Hitchcock.

"Commander," he called to her, trying to attract her attention, not sure if she would hear the words that fell away from his ears as if he had never spoken them. _It can't keep this up for long_, he thought to himself, ignoring the apparition of Robert that appeared now between himself and Hitchcock, stretching out its arms. _Before it could only handle one person at a time_. He waved his arms. Hitchcock looked up, and stood to attention, then her eyes widened in horror. Across the bridge, Ford took his arm away from his face and sat up, looking confused.

_It was ok when I was unconscious_, Bridger realised, his brain beginning to function more quickly as it became accustomed to disregarding the constant stream of emotions that bombarded it. _There were only four to deal with then._

"Commander," he turned back to Ford. "Help Ortiz!"

He saw Ford nod before he felt the crushing weight of a thousand tons of water on his head.

-----

Ford shook Ortiz by the shoulder, trying to ignore Peters' high-pitched shrieking. Ortiz's black eyes opened, and he stared up at the other man. "Commander?"

Ford turned. "Captain, he's-" but Bridger was lying on the floor, his arms flailing as if he was trying to push something away, eyes open but seeing nothing. "Damn," Ford whispered. He couldn't quite make his head make sense of what was going on, but he knew he had to do something. He tried to recall the sequence of events. Bridger had been shouting. Something about torpedoes.

"Torpedoes," Ford muttered.

Ortiz shook his head. "Sir?"

Ford couldn't remember what they were supposed to be firing torpedoes at. "Fire the torpedoes," he said, rising. He took a step towards the console, and then he was confronted by his brother, hanging on a large wooden cross. Someone was shouting, shouting something, but he could only stare at the blood that was dripping to the metal floor. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the image was gone. Ortiz was half way to the weapons console, but he was crouched, cowering, and Ford knew he had to get there before it noticed him again. He broke into a run, jumping over Ortiz, reaching his hand forward, and his brother's eyes were staring at him, empty, and he fell, despair twisting his stomach, but as he fell he felt his hand connect with something. And then he knew nothing but horror for what felt like an eternity.

And then, and then it was gone.

Ford struggled to his feet. Peters had stopped screaming, and was sitting on the floor, sobbing quietly. The alarm had switched off too, and full power had come back on. The screen in front of him flashed "TARGET DESTROYED" in large red letters. A cross section of the sea floor showed only a pile of rocks where the marine base had been. "It's gone," Ford whispered, reaching out to touch the screen. He felt a strange sense of emptiness.

Behind him, he heard voices. He turned to see Ortiz helping Bridger up.

"Ow, my ankle," the captain muttered, wincing. Ford strode over.

"What's going on? What on earth _was _that?" he asked, shaking his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs that seemed to have taken over his brain.

Bridger looked at him, exhausted and sad. "I don't know, Commander. I'm not sure I want to know. All I know is it's gone now."

"Are you sure?" Ford asked, rubbing a nervous hand across the back of his neck.

Bridger looked around, leaning on Ortiz, then smiled, a bitter smile devoid of all joy. "Yes," he said. "I'm sure."

-----

-----

"It was Hoyle," Bridger said calmly.

"You've got to be kidding me." Ryder looked from the captain's serene face to the doctor's determined one. "Hoyle's dead!"

Westphalen shook her head. "He poisoned Lucas' water bottle before he died," she said firmly.

Ryder was speechless for a moment. "You mean to tell me," he said slowly, "you're going to pin all of this on one guy? Lucas-"

Bridger leaned forward. "Lucas is sixteen, and he is alive," he said in a low voice. "He has his whole life ahead of him. Do you want to take that away from him?"

Ryder was shaking his head. "So you're going to let Hoyle's family believe he killed all those people?"

"He killed at least one," Bridger said. "He was sick, it wasn't his fault. It's easier to forgive the dead than the living."

"Jeez," Ryder muttered. A frown darkened his sharp features. "And you want me to lie too?"

For a moment, no-one said anything. Then Westphalen put a hand on his arm, and although her face was calm, her voice broke when she spoke. "Please," she said quietly. "Please. For the boy's sake."

Ryder swallowed. "Will he remember when he wakes up?"

Bridger and Westphalen exchanged glances. "We hope not," the captain said finally, rubbing his hand across his eyes, and for a moment Ryder saw how tired he looked under his careful blankness.

There was silence. Not the kind that Bridger had become all too familiar with, but a natural silence; somewhere in the corridor, a woman laughed; the clock on the wall ticked quietly; deep below them, the ship's mighty engines thrummed. Ryder's face was flat with concentration.

Then he looked up. "OK," he said, with a sigh. "OK, I'll do it."

-----

Nick's parents had left that morning with their son's body. Bridger tried not to think of the mother's hopeless face as he entered med-bay, skirting around the spot where the boy's corpse had lain, staring at him with glassy eyes. O'Neill had been discharged as well, and was recuperating in his quarters. Only Lucas was still there, unconscious, but out of danger, so Doctor Westphalen informed him. Bridger crossed to his bed, watching him sleep for a moment, less pale now, more like the boy who had grinned at him only a week before as they talked about haunted outposts. He reached out and ruffled the boy's hair, feeling the warmth through his fingertips, and closed his eyes as a memory of Robert filled his mind. When he opened them again, he saw to his surprise that Lucas was watching him.

"Well, hello." Bridger tried to sound natural. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

Lucas coughed. "Like I was hit by a truck," he croaked. "No, actually make that a cruise ship," he added, rubbing his head ruefully. "What happened?"

Bridger held his breath. "You don't remember?"

Lucas blinked. "I remember it was dark in the base," he said. "Then I fell over, then I'm here. Is everything OK?"

Bridger felt his throat burning with relief and despair; he remembered Levin lying in a pool of blood, and Hoyle's brains spattered across Lucas' quarters, and Nick's mother's red-rimmed eyes. Then he smiled, forcing his voice to sound normal.

"Yeah, Kiddo. Everything's going to be fine."

_End_


End file.
